Shimmering, shining, fixedly twining,
sun-silvered and ever so slightly befuddled,
the morning glory opens our gifts
one at a time.  All the time
stammering beneath breath
scented so it is easy to miss,
None is yours to keep,
but to feel your eyes touch
as they would a butterfly,
each petal a stunning blue violet wing
that a clenched fist powders
like that.  Lean close and you will hear,
Give us a lullaby, Luv.
One for each and every bloom
before that shadow creeps
to claim.  Only one that you create
will do.  Remember, Luv,
neither morning nor glory lasts.
Only the music we make.  If
we are lucky, the memory
of a moth soft touch..

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, 2007

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