Every once in a while the branches part
and there is a gleaming splinter of light–
just enough to nick the rough bark, make it seem
like the scritch of a match head had birthed
its copper sides and these rich, fluttering
halos of green. Hard to court abundance,
hard to keep it— And yet, here is a feather
left behind by the crested bird, the silken pods
from the honey locusts, vermillion threads
pulled from the frayed tapestry: what surged
like ripeness once, continues to show its face—
shy homeless waif, knocking again on your door.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.