So yellow, so open now—
as though the evening primroses
had soaked in morning’s heat
and saved it for the darkest
hours of night.
What do they have
to teach me of grasping and letting go?
Even the bee is forced to make its visits
cloaked in the dressing-gown of dusk.
The claw-shaped shadows cross
like weapons; retract, and yet remain.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.