The morning is not speaking to you.
You’ve had your breakfast on the veranda,
Watched the day’s thin clouds
Conversing with the order of the troposphere.
Nothing has been said to you.
You move out to the lawn.
The morning’s dew is just
Being licked clean by the warming air,
The grass is militaristic in its rising.
There are no questions for you.
Later, you elect to stand physically beside,
If not socially equal to, the scarecrow
In your garden: the beginnings
Of your corn is chest high, the beans
Are about to flower. The sun
Is organizing all around you:
But no word. Nearly noon
And you have come indirectly to the forest edge,
Playfully removing your shirt and shoes:
The primitive at the face of chaos,
Awaiting a word, a part
In this on-going conversation. On the veranda
Your wife is waving, shouting so you can hear
About lunch. Is this
What the morning says:
Lunch is coming? Is this
What the morning tells you each
Morning? Morning after morning?
And it is conversation.
Yes, it is.