Morning hits Lucerne like sun on a wave,
a hot torrent of light, turning the celandine trees
to yellow beacons.
Here, I am nameless,
A glass cup
without its maker's stamp.
A snail moves through the grass--
its shell recalls to me a home I saw in Cordoba.
Morning finds me and empties its pockets,
I make my way home through a roomful of light.