This Is

daffodils bloom on the lips of saints whose tattooed hands grasp stone under archways leading to copses of almond trees where satyrs dance white geese flock along riverbanks studded with mounds where the old buried warriors supplicate an imperial sky and magenta vincas burst from the ground and shroud the grass with their verdant plumage heavy silken butterflies list through balmy zephyrs, flying through the boughs of drooping trees, and giants stoop to bathe in the river after laying down their beaten clubs the rolling hills are dotted with crisp dandelions, in each of which a hundred spores sit cocked and ready to dismount and sail across the veranda this summer day is but the twinkle in the eye of the god that lives in a sphere of clouds, too big to conceive of, who laughs and laughs and laughs