Morning glories climbed and vined all summer
through metal wires twisted into fence, held by stakes
along the edges of the garden.
I wish my name could be Morning Glory
she tells as we walk past the violet blossoms
lingering late this warm November.
“Glory is my naem” she writes later
on little papers which recline
on the wooden easel.
What does glory mean? she asks over a cup of tea.
I lean back to Webster on the shelf
and wonder that she must know,
And has so aptly given herself
the trumpet mouthpiece name,
praise and adoration,
She who has written songbooks filled
with love and adoration for the one
she cannot see
And stands upon the steps and sings
from her books, from her heart
of a love I long to have.