Laura Scheffler Morgan


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.