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In the small light of morning,
everything comes clear.

Autumn dogwood's red berries,
starred with black stems, convex light,

their motionless leaves lilac-rimmed.
Maples turned overnight. Yellow

fumes from green, orange from yellow,
colors proved certain by contrast,

by change.
When you walk into that light

hang your sleep on a chair.
Hang your lethargy.

Wind nudges a thin, glistening layer
of dew over fronds. Air

seethes with the odor
of rinsed cones, of pines immured

in damp silence.
Stay, new conception. Endure.

I can see you, legs taking up chunks
of the landscape, abandoning

the place you imagined
you stood only moments ago.

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Copyright © 2014 Lisa Williams All rights reserved
from Gazelle in the House
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission