Blue Lotus

Wake up and the morning's quiet, 
the trees stand undivided blue. 
The new moon hangs like a little boat 
that cannot sink. Tell me what you're thinking. 
I am all empty. The blue lotuses 
release the spurwing and Egyptian geese. 
Near us the tables are already set with oranges 
and slotted spoons, the nubs of last night's candles. 
I am not ready, but the color's here, 
the light simple on the white cups, 
black grapes. You hold one up 
and the light makes it a marble, 
a black pearl, sacred gift. I am myself 
the wayside morning shrine.