Ante Meridiem

for Ivy

What I desire in the morning
is the music of guitar, its pottery-dull notes
knocking knees in the lower strings

and in the upper notes a skittering like
the black-capped chickadee that surfs the wind
rushing through our hedge,

planting its claws like fingers across
the little fretless board of a branch and
plucking spiders’ eggs for breakfast.