Turning Poem by David Taylor

As soft as early morning dew
and sweet like nectar
surrounded by such subtle hues.
Each petal unique
each leaf a shape defined
in seeds’ embryonic mind.
An earthscape of scenes
so sublime
bathed in perpetual sunsets
as turning we can seek.
And in the mind such raptures
do we often find
as pleasures past and future
our dreams are of a dreamlike kind.
And then with shadows
menacing insurgents upon
a blissful scene
we claim the beauty as our own
and seek exclusivity
of that which cannot be assigned
and clutching what is not mine
I crush the dew and nectar
and make a bitter wine.