Sunday: Morning Glories

You have a secret work
within your work,
the stillness at the heart
of Presence.
The energy for the task
is gratitude, the connection
a morning glory feels to light.
Blossoms are speechless.
But the pure joy of Being
is a kind of song.
You could sing like that,
seeded by a stray breeze,
tangled over a broken fence
beyond the empty barn,
where pigeons startle and flash
in dusty sunbeams stuttering
through chinks of warped cedar.
The passion in the fragrance
of the shadows is what matters.
You meet the Friend in a gaze
that spills through amazement,
mirror to mirror.
Your useless beauty falls
in streams of not pretending.
Bend when you need to,
feigning no perfection.
Trellised on rails of silent ruin,
bow under graces of weightless sky.
Entwine with the weeds
of revelation.
Flower without trying.