Is there dew on the grass, are they tears
of a lover that time forgot?
Is there milk in the cup, fresh
skin formed on the nourishing fat?
Is the seed worked free of rock,
and has it brought its tattered shirt?
Is the grout in the bathroom stall
now a legible trail?
Is the pear tree warm or cold? Beneath its arms,
does it wish for a reader of long Russian novels?
Is the sill wide enough for a window
to rest, for a wing to roost?
Is the woman headed toward the train
station, does she hear the warning bell?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.