Morning Glory

Out in the garden in the high heat of the day, trimming and weeding. One of the morning-glories has started to bloom. At last the recovery of color in the green, greening, brown of time. Purple-red trumpets sexual at the ends of whirling vines. Yesterday more cold, gloomy, wet, rainy weather. The coldest, darkest, wettest July of record. Has summer actually begun now, or is it still an illusion. Be prepared for cold nights, no matter where or when. The trumpet flowers say, heat, heat us, oh the sun, oh bright sun, we love rising and opening, we open to you, rise, open, rise, open, wind, fall, return. Bees everywhere, our lovers. What are these iridescent scarabs lurking in the goldenrod. How we open, rise, and open, even to them. Our vanity is perilous, but lovely. Glory is a vine climbing towards the light, the light, towards sun, god, light, and high frail skies. We trail. We trail ourselves along your grasp. Available windows. A spout of rain. We rise, open, rise.

and in the midst
of roses, another rose:
bees, be not afraid