Tick

by March 17, 2013 0 comments

the flowers in the garden are screaming, screaming at the sun
morning glories uncurl, unfurl, split wide in their song
mouths and tongues laid bare against the pink of the morning light
an opera for the insects uncurling beneath the soil

leaves unfurling beneath the sudden lightness of evaporating dew
the vines rustle against the brick of houses in a clockwork tick
that follows the flickering sun as it moves across the sky
steady as the heartbeat of a pianist’s metronome

editors note:

A grandly blooming garden is the height of horticultural horology. You can set your watch by one. – mh

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