Morning Glories
These flowering funnels burst like waterspouts
frozen in the first perfect flight of spray.
Perhaps that’s why their violet suggests
the last moment of night, its final thought
surviving into the early stages of daylight.
I rise and stand at the window admiring
how they lace the chain links and stretch
their spindles toward the bench.
No photograph could frame their tenacity
as they reach like a deliberate wave breaking
over the lawn. It will take days, like a work of art.
Yet their leafed ambition is a figure of modesty,
a flourishing that withers by the afternoon hours.
Even as they twine the bench’s wrought iron
sending their blooms up through the planks,
they shame my recollection of how their name
was used to mean someone whose promising youth
never blossomed. Tomorrow they will trumpet
their arrival with new flowers so vivid
it will seem that today never existed.
No comments:
Post a Comment