Morning, January (8-9 January)

I go out with the morning light
of summer, in dawn’s breath
to feel dew on dandelion limbs
tickle bare ankles while
winding rose stems studded
with beads, translucent
pearls of water hang still.

At this moment, when nature steals
away from image to metaphor in mind
I do not know that this is a day
where people will claim to be wordless,
where I will be shocked at not being
shocked by the grey predictability:
hatred, ideology, aggression, death
again drawn together
as sure as beauty and peace.

Like these wandering thoughts
this poem does not end
with answers.