SITTING ON THE FRONT STEPS, 6:15 A.M.
I’d forgotten how to begin
the day, the late summer
day, in the moistness,
the early coolness
when the bees are busy
in the jewelweed, when
the waning moon
floats between dispersing
clouds. What does the little
world of men have
to offer then? To offer them,
I mean. To offer me?
