Refurling

Wood sorrel:

Tastes like sour apples.

A cheerful companion,

          lining damp trails.

When long shadows linger, her wings fold,

          tuck under,

          like a cold moth.

Morning glory:

She explodes at dawn,

          a riot of unsubtle color.

Look at me! she shouts.

When touched by dusky fingers, she implodes,

          crumples,

          a dying star on the vine.

Nyctinastic:

A response to external stimuli.

A slow and gentle inhalation

          at end of day.

A pulling inwards

          of everything that must be protected.

A re-furling 

          of bloom and of leaf

          in case dawn does not come again.

Can a garden be depressed?

I wrap myself

in crepe-paper petals,

and wait for light.