One Morning

I wish I could show you the dawn tire: 
Black rubber reflects young orange light, in 
Crisp piled leaves between the holly tree 
And the laundry pole, under the eaves. 

Or this odd little plot in the backyard, 
Where small puffballs appear overnight, their 
Spores unfurled on tiny bent rapiers of grass,  
Each gleaming, each pointed, each delicately curled. 

The jet overhead, that hollow hammering, 
The traffic roar cannot disturb this vital, 
Still silence that is root to them all: 
Presence knows the debt it owes to absence. 

© Larry Haworth 2013