Dawn
came first to the wall
and hung there a single red lip.
Though no one called it all night,
the flower curled into itself
and gazed for a long while into the heart of darkness.
Whenever a drop of dew
trembles at the tip of a petal,
the names of those who have passed
seem still to be wet.
Standing before it,
I push toward the morning
the words I have never once been able to give.
The morning glory,
aware of its fading from the very instant it blooms,
still raises its slender neck to the sky.
To be red
is not to be wounded,
but to have somewhere you long, at last, to reach.
While sunlight crosses over the wall,
a small flower
calls forth the time called today
with its whole body.
