We don't put sunrise in a purse or coat,
yet it is given us, a sinecure.
With symphonies, we can't possess a note
or phrase, yet they are also given, as sure
as swallows in the bank, if we can look
or listen, furnish time and liberal thought.
We don't cram roses in a pocketbook.
They return the fragrance we have brought,
according our attention to their flowers.
While some demur and say that these are things
that being casually provides, that dirt is also ours,
I note the stash of pumpkins that the soil upflings.
Rain fills the lakes. Carnelians in the sand
glow red with sun spread in my cupping hand.