Below Morning's Edge
The cannas have begun to show,
a paradox of petaled sunrise
risen atop stoic stalks
leaves held together, as always,
slipped inside one another like
pages of poetry - twisted,
hidden in the dark crescent
below morning's edge.
For long months of Carolina summer
they stand proud, May through September.
I wonder, come the third Thursday
if the thanks they give is for the fall,
for the chance, at last, to let the sun set.
Are they glad to loose their curled secrets,
to lay them down and sleep?
pffft. This feels completely unfinished, but then, considering the inspiration and subject, maybe it should. I don't know. I've stared it down for weeks, and I'm sick of trying to beat it.