you’ve scraped me clean to the bottom
of the bowl, where the flint-
edge of spoon rasps against dented
metal, and lunar hollows give off
a cold and mineral light. From here,
the sky’s a bordered rim the eye
might skim, for the skin of passing clouds.
Now I’m anxious even for the sound of wind
or rain, the branches’ waking rattle,
downpour of warm remembered sun;
then by degrees the rising sap
like honey in the veins of trees.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.