In the twilight of the waking day

the early bird unplugs the worm,

and I along my well-trod way

observe its hapless tangled squirm.

 

Eager beaks pluck spring fresh reds

as blossoms blush unperturbed,

while those still slumbered in their beds

seek in dreams what they once learned

 

as children with their minds alight

each early wonder newly seen,

would wish away the endless night

to once again be where they’d been

 

I mourn the worm and praise the wing

I breathe the air that holds the day,

these early hours make old men sing

as if again a child at play.