Oh God, how could I ever explain
the spinning of the cosmos?
To articulate the sparkling of dew?
Do I keep around me the ability to dream
of one thousand baby spiders, bright enough
to break through the daylight, weaving webs
of multicolored crystals in thin air? Do I dare?
The twinkling eye of a tiger-lily enthralls me
leads me to believe
there is a God after all. Not yours, of course.
But I do dream, and dream well. Yellow sphinxes
batting down jet planes like moths, and my mouth
opens wide, gasping in a cool night,
and my sight is of blue rivers disappearing,
blending into the gradient of misty church towers
long taken over by English ivy, and thankful
for their divine right to solitude, silence, peace,
and decay.
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