From no practical instruction,
I have come to learn
that around seven a.m. is
when the June sun
is angled just right
for its light to become tangled,
momentarily fragmented
and trapped
in the tightly weaved branches of
two sweetgum trees
at the end of my street, just such
that I can linger beneath
and freely observe it
fixed there: halcyon, pacific;
as if standing—like god would,
like the word did
in the beginning
before it could be spoken
or heard—completely implicit,
inconsequent of time.
That I am there promptly
each morning
to see it—makes no difference;
that I am here now
to say it—matters
every little bit.
