Overcast sky, the rain that falls
elsewhere. The canopy of electric sound
cicadas weave throughout the trees.
You have me scour the pockets
of such moments for some remnant
change— and here I lay them down
and balance them on a rim of glass.
A silver-spotted skipper drinks
from the bergamot and I want
to tip my face toward the flower’s
starburst cup. So long at work,
and teetering from one impossible
task to another. I count and recount
an abacus of spilled grain, water flowing
from a sieve: o gather me now in.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.