Morning Glories

Every summer they return, despite what the seed package says, pulling themselves up the trellis like bathers from a pool dripping leaves. All through the hot days they stretch green fingers up the deck post and along the railing, twine around pots of captive geraniums, a storm of small tornadoes swirling open each morning, until the cool air of late fall stops them. This is what they know: that every living thing pushes right out to the edge of itself, no instructions are accurate, and despite the certain end of summer we continue to play at beginnings.