Classic Poem

Daybreak. The horizon
half opens its lashes
and begins to see. What? Names.
They are over the patina

of things. The rose
today is still called a rose,
and the memory
of its passing, haste,

a haste to live longer.
May we be lifted to an enduring love
by this unripe power
of the Moment, so nimble

that on reaching its goal
it runs to impose Afterwards!
On guard! On guard! On guard!
I will be! I will be!

But the roses? Fast-closed
lashes: ultimate
horizon. Perhaps nothing?
But the names remain.