Ruth Dickey

Morning glory blessing

My dad is finding new delights, surprising us both,
saying, Spring is really something here; I’d forgotten.  I ache

for the world dusted with pine pollen, everything
ochre, dogwoods’ planar bursts of white glowing,

me hiding in red clay garden rows eating fat
sun-warmed berries and peas I was supposed

to be picking, June pressing down like a blanket
everything smelling of cut grass and clover, gathering 

violets from mossy dark under apple trees, everything
buzzing and humming, pulling pistils from honeysuckle

to taste sweetness, mornings hunting fruit and flower:
bless new delights, bless beyond forgetting, bless hours

of a morning glory’s silky petals unfurled
before sun climbs high enough to close them.