Revisionist Poetry – “Tilt” – Downward Glance, v.3

Rows of heads follow the morning like habit;
one keeps its face lowered, a slow refusal.
The stem bends at the knuckle as if remembering rain;
petals close over the center like a folded letter.

Light bleeds through in a thin, stubborn seam —
as if the plant keeps a hidden lamp against the cold.
Around it the field murmurs in the ordinary way of things;
it waits, quiet and explosive, asking nothing.

I stand there with my hands empty, learning the cruelty of waiting:
a single light that will not hurry to meet me,
and in its patient burn I feel a small grief
that is almost, at last, devotion.