Sunday, May 22, 2005
copeland morris ABOUT WISTERIA
I close off the room and lock it.
Winter is hanging on till April, the invisible
Reinventing time, approaching the blossoms
Of wisteria blown down, touching the hourglass.
Darkness subsides. Surrounded by play, children
Notice this peace, lingering upon the branch.
They bid me look before I turn my head.