Air scented thickly from many spring flowers.
Heat inversion and fog and warming skin.
A morning so heavy that the peonies
can’t lift themselves to greet the sun.
I sit shaded, writing it all down.
Sunlight crisp through bare almost-spring trees and
the air still March cool except here,
this circle around us, hot coffee and
eggs and toast, birds breakfasting on seeds,
last summer’s flowers watching us with interest.
Inspired by such a morning and Basho’s haiku:
I am one
who spends his breakfast
gazing at morning glories
Wings trembling over the shimmering filigree coverlet –
a maiden’s bed, empty in morning sunlight.
Gravity, a weak force, leaves us alone.
We are falling. We are flying. No,
not really flying, or even falling. Floating.
This morning light has a gray filter
of clouds and a coolness unlike August.
The hole in this summer doesn’t cut
the gray. I just want quiet sleep,
sweet dreams when this long trick’s over.