Morning Glory

“The light is simply terrifying”—Claude Monet

I

His body is a granite effigy

rising from the bindweed

Tilted face meets cavernous sky

Whiter blanched than bone, his skin’s

translucent glow,

and he sways in the moist exhale

of the earth’s still stirring

Soil and leaf and bud perfume

to musings under nose

Sunlight, breaching cloud and shade,

drums warmth over eyelids

and in his thoughts

a spectrum of unfettered color

pools,

to nurture opaque eyes

II

He senses ceaseless movement

all around him: light, motion

entwine

to transcend boundaries and time

the garden enveloped in gold fire-glow

ablaze fingers that grope

for silken blooms

the petals clenched to bruised fists

but their tendrils surge forth, unbound

by trellis and ephemeral breath

sinuous stems, the creeping Hydra,

unfurl a myriad faces toward him

the blossoms blind

and fading