You wake in the Earl Grey,
a morning not yet fully brewed to bronze,
a day not fully bruised to blue
and watch your neighbor stoop
to pick a few tomatoes from his bed.
His shirt, cut off at the sleeves,
navy like a night not yet alive,
falls around the wrinkled linen of
his shoulders, his knees resist the bend
of age as stubborn metal poles
pitched in shapes to hold the upright space
of a tent against the stars.
And then the sturdy stiff-lipped pine,
casting shadow arms across his back
and schools of sparrows ornament
each limb, chirping chants of daybreak praise
and those arms curl around his chin
and take his tongue away before it ever
touches the red lipped tomato.
mindbodysoulpoetry 