BriM __ here to go ~ Call it Écriture
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?
