Last night’s monocle
split to pieces by the loblolly limbs,
wind at the window secretive
as an owl
at woods edge,
an ear tuned to the groundlings
on guard in the switchgrass.
Your promise, sweet daydream:
a few degrees up
from chill, a rapt vigil,
sleep no longer fretworthy,
a shadow half shadow that shadow—
you, darling daybreak, accountable
for eyeshot greening & winged.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 1.