In the small light of morning,
everything comes clear.

Autumn dogwood’s red berries,
starred with black stems, convex light,

their motionless leaves lilac-rimmed.
Maples turned overnight. Yellow

fumes from green, orange from yellow,
colors proved certain by contrast,

by change.
When you walk into that light

hang your sleep on a chair.
Hang your lethargy.

Wind nudges a thin, glistening layer
of dew over fronds. Air

seethes with the odor
of rinsed cones, of pines immured

in damp silence.
Stay, new conception. Endure.

I can see you, legs taking up chunks
of the landscape, abandoning

the places you imagined
you stood only moments ago.

Lisa Williams is the author of Woman Reading to the Sea. She was formerly senior editor and writer for environmental innovators William McDonough and Michael Braungart. She teaches at Centre College in Danville, Kentucky.