From Given Away
To break it open,
to make
the orange lantern
of the flower
open, to wash
my hands in its light.
Last bees in the yard,
the drowsy leaves
leaking their slow
red and gold.
One of the sages
in the book
I read and misplaced
said there was no time
to finish the harvest,
the day short,
the night
long—the Master near.
Copyright ©2012 Kore Press