Solitary Morning Glory
I am a solitary morning glory waking with the dawn.
I spent the summer waiting,
and forgot its songs of yellow light;
now the yawning afternoons turn amber
and still my hair is dark.
I may rise to greet the morning,
and meet its brilliant eye,
but I’ll be tired by the time the noon sun shines;
too tired to face the road down from
this quiet house upon the hillside,
hidden in the tangle of the yard.
From here outside the world, I watch
time passing far below,
at a distance much too great for me to feel it;
but every day I hope to be the one
it comes to call me back.
So I’ll just open wide the curtains,
and watch the seasons pass
from the chair beside the window facing south,
through slow and silent afternoons
that will fade as I forget.
The dying day leaves dying light
suspended in the dust,
floating softly all around the room like stars.
I will pass the months by counting days,
and pass the years by counting months;
until the day I’ll try to trace
lines etched by time across my face
back to the thoughts I thought when I was young.
The glass will have grown filmy,
and I’ll look for the fragments of my life
in the fragments of broken light
caught in the pane;
caught in the pain
and left behind.
I am a solitary morning glory fading with the day.