Early August morning on the deck,
a cool breeze still, birds singing.
The fuchsia blooms bob up and down,
the potato bush is making a comeback,
leafing out when I thought it had died.
So is its neighboring vine.
I’d like to read something into it,
that my re-surgence is next,
but probably shouldn’t.
Sometimes I see signs,
but they remain like unstrung beads
in a dish,
unable to coalesce,