The sun's doing something different
with the east end of the house,
something tinged with peach
inside the mini-blinds, light
sliced like grapefruit,
something I want to worship.
The infinite in the concrete,
gold of a dustmote
in the lap of my amber armchair, hints
of an indivisible world -- Morning
slips off her nightgown,
the vestibule of day, gentle flow of city traffic
like the roll of an ocean outside my window.
Seeing Spring, genuflecting,
the forsythia flounce their heat as sun
bronzes the horizon
like a king who blinds us now
because we want to see too much.