A while ago in the cool
shadows: an eddy of warm air,
then the scent of ferns.

What gleans moisture
from the blades, spreads
heat from leaf to broad

leaf, before morning
is even halfway gone.
In the receding shadows,

the scarlet flame
of a tanager flashes
once, then disappears.

Here I am, untwisting
threads from their
gathered knots—

to try again to lay
the winding straight.
So it is each day,

impatient fingers at their practice;
and only hope that time might
make things new again.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.