Wake up in the morning,
go and find the southern road.
The sun rises over wildflowers there.
Park the car on a gravel shoulder,
watch the light, the time
will be well spent,
I promise, but
if time
is spent
instead
in sleep you can’t shake off,
rise anyway,
late as it is.
Any road will do.
The presents that I have for you
are moveable, or, rather, everywhere.
Butterfly wings in freeze frame,
stutter in the film, then
the reel rolls again.
White spots on the fawn
who bolts, then stops
and turns
to look at you.
Flowers, too,
in yellows, yellow-blacks and yellow-whites
golds and oranges
and sometimes,
just for variety,
lavender.
Are you looking?
Oh, god it makes your heart sing,
doesn’t it?
No?
Oh.
All right.
I guess you’re right
We all have to write
our own poems.