To the Morning Glory

Some mornings the day hands you something you weren’t looking for. I stepped out the front door, coffee in hand, and stopped cold — there, climbing out of the boxwood by the porch, a wild morning glory vine had made itself at home, its white bloom with that quiet blush of pink opening to the morning like it owned the place. Boxwoods don’t bloom. But this uninvited guest did, and I was glad for it.

Oh Morning Glory with blooms of white
The waves fall upon my sight
They greet my soul with such delight
And nudge away the weight of night 

The subtle pink though whispering low 
And calls my eyes, downward slow
Rewards my stopping, that I know
A tellurian archipelago 

A sauntering sun across the sky
Travelling on, so must I 
I lift my eyes and subtly sigh
And to this flower say goodbye

These stanzas end but you should know
Where you have gone, I too will go
Life is short yet time is long
But to love is never wrong

So go the prayers of this poet