To the Morning Robin
The early bird catches the worm,
the early worm catches the bird.
To the morning robin listen closely.
there within you will hear
the hoot of the owl. Dawn’s crack comes as a door open
but only so slightly.
It comes as a muskrat would gnaw at the edge of night.
Take a walk. You will forever remain in the present’s wake,
therefore, “take” remains—and is always—took.
Within the shadow of the nightshade
I could smell and taste the milky sap of the morning glory
and within the morning glory:
moonflowers.
Present is always one step behind.
As we advance we retreat into dawn.
And dawn’s sister is dusk. And dawn’s reflection is the moon.
No matter how well-meaning, the present could not sustain.
It could not tolerate or weather or endure or stand.
The moving-mirror-time-space-continuum,
this menagerie of moments, this battleship of molecules
and inertia,
always pressed—always presses—close,
forever compelled near,
at last, falls in upon itself because it cannot stand upon itself.
It’s as but bones without its skin
and eternity wins.
© June 23, 2013 by UT2
