the night had grown old and morning
crept across the lawn – tender tiptoes on wet grass
breezes teased dew from trees- woke slumbering flowers in their beds,
and me, as the cobwebs of dream
clear to greet her coming
no desire to go from outside to
inside – no desire for the musty odor
of things in need of dusting and
things that occupy space and give
little in rent when
outside, out here, it’s all connected.
