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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 one inside another like
pages of poetry - twisted,
hidden in the dark crescent
just below morning's edge.
Four long months of Carolina summer
they stand proud, June 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?
.
