Morning's Glory

The morning glories on my pack porch open their trumpet deep purple blooms every morning. When the sun brightens the inky dark, when the mocking bird begins the day's announcements, when the loudspeaker from the nearby air force base broadcast the notes of our nation's anthem, those purple glories open up.

The crepe myrtle, unpruned, untended,  infused with fuchsia tissues, obscures the line of the horizon from view. The bright green sweet potato vines root in the bed edging the back of the house. My wire hanging-baskets spill over, showing off the purple of the purple jew and the needles of the asparagus fern, and the wrinkles of the Boston fern.

But my eyes always return to my morning glories. I can set my clock by their opening blooms. Daily they resolutely fold their petals up in the face of the sun's brassy rays. Daily their petals bunch up shut against the overwhelming radiating heat. But in the morning after resting in the dark cool. In the morning before it gets too hot. In the morning shaking off their sleepies, and forgetting yesterday's heat, my morning glories open wide and big.