From the second floor terrace, everything below seems subservient.
Even the sun.
It’s been rising for an hour, illuminating and
Warming, for the earlies, the chilly atmosphere;
Coaxing each, by its light and infinite power,
To flower, flower from within mounds of old earth,
Flower, like ruby roses, into the golden dawn.
One man glimpses the glistening grass below, and ponders:
“There’s hardly been any sun,
And, for mid-April days, these last have been rather cool.
How has the lawn grown so rich?”
“Ah . . . the rain; it must be the rain,” he reminds himself.
For even on the greyest days, those graminoids were preparing for the sun.
And still they work; while he gazes south and into the leafless park dividers,
Not noticing as the wind drags westward the steam billowing up from his coffee cup.
His cropped leather jacket and dockers are good enough for this brief escape,
Blocking the chill of early dominance; yet appeasing the highest tower powers.
Codes and their makers cease to matter, however, as the coffee’s earthy aroma engulfs his face
Like the hot lips of a lover whose hunger, with each kiss, grows and overwhelms his senses,
Blinding him to all but her intensity, as he gulps her hotness, and accepts her slow, intimate charge.
Charged, he again gazes into the park; exhales; then lifts to his lips
An ashen white stick, which he props between his first fingers and drags:
Through tree branches, over benches, and out into a sun-filled enclave
Where — unless he thrives as an artist — his day cannot be spent.
A moment — this singular early morning moment — is all he can afford, and
Maybe one more puff, before he, behind the widest column in the railing,
Disappears in blue-grey smoke.