The morning glory
is tangling its green 
vines around me. 
Binding my feet like 
a Chinese maiden,
twisting up to my 
waist. A belt of leaves 
blooms from my belly. 
The sun is bright. 
A glory beams 
through the clouds.

Up it climbs. The vine
turns again, circles 
the contours of my body, 
coiling more tightly around 
my neck. A mourning dove 
coos from the telephone 
wire. A moth catches its 
wings in the brambles.

Now the vine has come 
to rest on the top of my 
head, bursting into full 
bloom. A white halo 
opens like an umbrella.

There should be a word
for the power of light.

© by Margaret Chula .
Used with the author’s permission.