The sun can’t make up its mind, punching through
morning mist, setting fields abuzz.
Then wrapping into itself, clouds winding
into great spirals, overtaking the sky.
I am overcome with seasons,
with weather, with whether this hour
you’ll receive me into your hands,
your eyes. Into your hands I give my light,
faltering songs I barely manage, voice
cracking on the edge of dawn.
All the grasses wet and heavy with hope—
the illusion of beginning anew. We’re complicit,
but we’ll take it on the off-chance
that as the sun sweeps through,
the glittering golden field, transmogrified,
breaks into hundreds of orioles, ascendant
and carrying our hidden song to light.
Gold breaking forth, unbidden,
your warmth to me finally certain.