Morning

Out of the peeling sky,

The blood of day arrives.

No nuisance of shadow

Can hinder the great surmise

Of light that pours like water

From the freshet of the sun.

Come hither, dew-speckled roses

And emerald pines.

Give forth your beauty

To these night-withered eyes.

I want to drink the potion

Of this mad apothecary

And press my cheek to the lotus,

Let the light filter through to my dreams

As I doze like a long-worshiped cat
In this plot of grass.