My grandmother's morning glory vines
covered the porch of her tenement.
We played there, summer afternoons,
that girl and I, the play of house,
with pots and pans set on cement
the sun had fired. Once, tremulous,
she asked what color eyes I liked the most.
At six I was no Don Juan, and said,
“Morning glory blue.” Her eyes
were black and teary. This is past—
except at times your eyes are sad
and blue like the morning glories were,
and I recall how she replied,
“O, blue,” and tried to hide her tears.