in the early morn of day comes a piercing shaft of light
upon the platform placed, prepared for settling
(and for planting)

it takes a while for things to reach a fine state of maturity
yet things reach state of bliss when arable thoughts become real
and the day shines bright on the one who comes
to pick the rose
which grows slow and steady
awaiting the fleeting brush of fingertips to graze


this


quivering
                                          soul