Here, too, you will find the breaking
of shadows, unearthing of earth at start
of the day.
One bird will call to another, and
this hearth will blossom, slow
and languid.
Here, too, morning smells fresh,
bright minted coins in memory’s cup.
Things will pass here as elsewhere they pass:
a day clears its throat, the yellow-light yawn-
an uncupping of leaves
after rain.
