Susan Vinson
Morning Glory
Two clocks on the wall, dripping faucets,
alternately fill in all the empty spaces;
pulsing hands push the slivered moon
through the crisping air
while pulling purple larkspur from the powdery earth
and weaving ribbons of birdsong into the warm
scent of the sun rising through
sips of steaming coffee.
Abby Lynne laughs in Abilene
while my thoughts can’t hear themselves think
until the uneven ticking synchronizes into silent rests.
Chiholloli lies tucked in your pocket.
Raindrops fill our eyes with tears.
You’re a daisy
while the scarlet poppies of summer dream of
dancing dragons
with iron feathers
as we soar past, clutching blue balloons.
Gramma blows adhesive kisses
that will track your flight
with a mirrorless kaleidoscope
while lacing notes of lullabies into a crocheted hat.
Meanwhile, the snapdragons chatter
and ladybug footprints glisten like stars
as seconds gather into drying bouquets.
Susan Vinson lives in South Central New Mexico.