Summer Morning

In that dictionary – a poem is
ready to explain how the sun
rose this morning as slow as
buttercups, longer than a
mockingbird sang honey
into my Earl Grey, and after
thirty-one brushstrokes of
blue and forever passing,
finally you woke to fresh
berries and cream as the
hummingbirds slowed,
looking in the kitchen
window, the sugar-water
cooling and just about ready
for a poem.