In the darkest part of morning I watch the world 
as if it could be read—before the weather but after the stars—
before the birds fly, but after they begin to sing—
before shadows, when the light arrives but not the colors—:

when the creating’s done—seeded, fledged, weaned—
when the half-moon still sits reflecting on the fir tips—
when there’s poise as potent as the pause before a sigh—
in the ombre minutes—in the ambiguity before discernment—

when moment and meaning shade as summer into autumn— 
before light breaks and becomes the routine of cliché— 
before eastern beginnings require westward endings—
in the illusion of stillness, when it’s easy to see equivalence——
when all things imply—as if I am myself a metaphor.

Footnote

Thoughts—when I am now, late summer—about the always-coming change of seasons, about the blurred edges of change we tend to sharpen, and how that leads to definitions–led me in turn to allude to Shakespeare, Sonnet 73. Here’s what that poem looked like in 1603, before the tyranny of dictionaries: