dawn rose punctual, on time
as usual for a minute or so

What speaks only through crookedness
From one place to another

The roses are not fretful. They become
A symbol of how it has gone;

clouds do not dance with the earth and the land
until they are burdened by heat

How odd to have faith in a circle
Open enough to uncrowd us.

Even as it empties now,
Countless happy accidents