sun sprout

the dead leaves know
the white square
of balcony metalwork hums
the answer
to the agitated accountants
in my head this morning

the book I put down
last night
the Buddhist nun I accused
of drinking too much,
of melancholy and mania,
the author --
I did not have an ear for her

and though I filed her book
back on my shelf,
she had fed my tears
to the soil of sleep
and the sun sprouted
from the ground this morning,
once day
was here