I

Last night
a frigid breath
skimmed the garden:
tips once green frizzle
in a rusty sun.

Lines barely mark
surviving blades --
waiting
for activation
of toasty beams.

II

A change in my waking
begins in November.

Mostly morning is a scream
of light separated by slats,

left open to silently call
me to join the day

instead of eyelids
seeking the light.

III

Cactus wren on the window sill,
your ruffling feathers

telegraph your first hiatus
from home of the purple sage;

your wing-flutter is a supplication
for dinner - truly your gaping beak

and pining eyes can only
be suckled by a mother.

IV

Fragrance of pancakes, maple syrup,
crisp bacon drift through half-light
of our rumpled morn.

You in cotton gauze and skin -
freckles underneath accentuate flesh --
thighs climb beneath the hem.