ALL DAWNS ARE FALSE

Morning is hope.
Dead-headed, the garden does not reveal
its secrets of mortality,
seduces its insects
into inebriating sweetness
of deeply chaliced juices.
Cool sunbeams wait for warmth,
and the air's cheeks
press on leaves that scarcely nod.
A blackbird bewitches the edge of woodland.

Afternoon grows out of morning,
abandons it, mourns it.
Heavy with bird-silence and heat,
its petals droop, sail down.
The air has forgotten to breathe.

Evening is disenchantment.
As the sun rouges the sky's cheeks,
the blackbird calls again
from the edge of the wood, saying,
'Morning failed to keep its promises.'

Then there is the slow amnesia of night.