This Morning
Anne Britting Oleson
The brilliance of honeysuckle berries,
flashing against the waxy green leaves,
warmed in today's immoderate sunshine:
all along the side of Route 7,
all red like blood, like the heart
filled this morning with August,
with Tuesday—and the cacophonous birdsong,
the high-pitched bowing of insects shout down
those little voices that say
I can't wait for this or that--
for next week, for fall, for Christmas
or my birthday—when this profusion
of fruitfulness is what's happening now,
is all that matters, is enough.
flashing against the waxy green leaves,
warmed in today's immoderate sunshine:
all along the side of Route 7,
all red like blood, like the heart
filled this morning with August,
with Tuesday—and the cacophonous birdsong,
the high-pitched bowing of insects shout down
those little voices that say
I can't wait for this or that--
for next week, for fall, for Christmas
or my birthday—when this profusion
of fruitfulness is what's happening now,
is all that matters, is enough.