You will find me early
with dew on the white fence

mood of the morning eye.
Blue, mine softly open,

then mid-day becomes tight-fisted.
If you listen you hear

summer songs of openings
and slight awakenings

within the morning sky.
As the sun races across heaven,

only then will I die.
A cup of softness that I offer the world

with a white and light pink
center to lure a wandering

bee before he gets too laden
with the day’s pollen, too heavy

to fly. What do I have to offer—
brief beauty, solo acrobatics while

I gently pull the electric blue
from the brevity of the sky.