MORNING
From the orchard silhouettes
of night run from the dawn
The bat covers itself with wings
upside down
a dark fruit never picked
Voices from the field shift
from north to south
In the east a silver incandescence
in the dark begins to filter blue
Mountains appear
like ancient castles
in a vapor of blackness
Dreams ghost into high clouds
and preparations for morning
untied shoes and eyes shut with dream
Voices out of empty socks
hatch into visibility
Outside
lights fade into a blue wall
and the smell of coffee
on each breath
replaces a question
scratched into the path
of each calloused palm
I turn
to the silent growing
of seeds
no one hears