How It Lazily Begins


A graceful lace falls on the morning,
curls around each blade of grass,
and decorates the gentle light
so tentatively cast.

Your eyes, if they are your eyes
and not the season they reflect,
lie almost parallel to me,
but coyly intersect.

Who could expect me to push
when the world's as soft as milk,
when you and clouds conspire
to crown me in silk?


Donald Zirilli
September 9, 2000
April 5, 2001