Morning

Morning light flows
on the grass,
washes me like a small child

I breathe low under birches.
The starlight runs deep;
The dew hangs low,

Glistening where each bead
balances on a hoof,
or the crisp edge

Of day to run louder—
on earthy blooms
and gentle hints,

Where blossoms wisteria
rise on shadows of peace;
A hush within the hour.

—Lola Ridge

• Lola Ridge