Just as no songbird will catch my worm.
Cold mornings find an ardent man agleam:
Bed made, tea poured, his ‘carpe diem’ firm.
Before daybreak all colors are converged
In twilight’s ebbing shade and flowing light.
I catch myself oft standing there submerged;
Engaged in plain, primordial delight.
Look out the window pane, see through the mist:
Old trembling trees; receding stars; loud crows.
As if the rest of it did not exist.
But then I spy—far off—a private rose.
In morning dusk, concealed by ashen hour
I claim the bashful, blooming flower.
