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.

 

 

 

 

 

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