The flower dangles by its stem; the stair-
case peels its progress, plank by plank,
diminishing into that well of light
we call a landing: what shore suspends
midway between the gradual earth,
the gradual sky? Night turns to day,
and day to night, reversing strip that
lightens at the edges. Lovers meet
and then soon part: whispers in the hedge,
while in the air, haloed and beaten,
disc that floats like labor’s emblem, its
coat-of-arms. Burnished and driven, I lip
the rain that poems the smallest flame,
that dangles the flower from its stem.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.