Dark Morning

My earache and i
Wait for light and heat,

For the brow of the morning to lift
And for a bird to sing the Sun
Out of its crypt.

The leaves -- those that haven't fallen --
Are crisp and folded,
Oregamis of Autumn;
The garden is picked clean,
Gone to seed:
One dented tomato
Embalmed by frost
Onto its fatal vine.

As if parachuted in,
A pair of heels hits the floor
In the upstairs bedroom,
And the backyard fence
Reminds me

That it rises
Along with me
Toward that
We call

-- Mr. Gobley