You forgot about today only yesterday,
whisper at the door of the coming hour.
it because my shadow sleeps in the grass under the tree at noon?
are stepping past one another as we learn timing.
the seconds: always racing by, looking in doors,
the minutes: lingering in the fragrance and
of your just-having-been-here.
else can I say?
tree bears no flowers, no fruit.
can never agree on a good time for anything.