This Morning

There are shadows and leaves and wind. Cicadas, thousands of cicadas, and there are cars that sound far away but that are probably very close. There is the sun. Where is the sun? Here is the sun. Shush dear, put it away. Place it in your pocket. Let it keep you warm. Let it burn through cotton and denim and flesh, and when you are done with it, give it back to the sky. There is the sky. Like every morning, there is the sky, but this morning, it is so white that it makes you understand the flush wings of angels. Somewhere nearby, there is a gardener. Somewhere nearby, the dahlias are wet and glistening.