Morning glory

Born, bloom, die
All in the one day
Blur a glass darkly,
Drift away.
This physician’s proof of death,
A girlhood’s fleeting fancy,
A garden romance
A moonlit dance
Chopin playing lightly
And no rectangular wooden box.
Instead a living thing with feathers
Whistles through my head
Across the broad Atlantic to raise the dead --
Your ravaging femininity instead. .