Morning Glory (for Patsy)
Heavenly blue Morning Glory
you trumpet year after year
early spring by inching up,
unattended, the telephone pole
announcing the news while your
green vines advance skywards too.
Last year someone cruel
ripped you from the pole.
It was naked in your usual
season. You were much missed
in the neighborhood. We thought,
like a lost soul, you were gone.
But this spring you sprang again
and rose up an even more
inhospitable metal street sign
just inches away. Your blue
and green-ness flourishes all
the way up to the sign: No Parking.
All summer, once again, you are
our bellwether until the first
fierce frost and then you
fall away, suddenly not there.