Today, I get what I measure: the word
I woke to, a day that starts without me.
Outside, amongst heady warming blaze-
bursts of mum, antiseptic sweet
breeze off the rose bush, into a ceramic
mug I sleepily offer spent
stem, soft flower, armored leaf, what grows
that I've planted, what lives
because of me. Organized seed. I pull free,
I pinch back, cut away, arrange.
The condensed, remaining dawn − far-flung
throb of blue-ended night, fired
morning full and waiting − is all
but gone, though its bright slip
for moments on the long grass, swollen
buds, remains: glinting proof of darkness
and its tryst with the living,
how lightly days disperse, connect.