April Aubade
Worship
this
world
of
watercolor
mood
in
glass
pagodas
hung
with
veils
of
green
where
diamonds
jangle
hymns
within
the
blood
and
sap
ascends
the
steeple
of
the
vein.
A
saintly
sparrow
jargons
madrigals
to
waken
dreamers
in
the
milky
dawn,
while
tulips
bow
like
a
college
of
cardinals
before
that
papal
paragon,
the
sun.
Christened
in
a
spindrift
of
snowdrop
stars,
where
on
pink-fluted
feet
the
pigeons
pass
and
jonquils
sprout
like
solomon's
metaphors,
my
love
and
I
go
garlanded
with
grass.
Again
we
are
deluded
and
infer
that
somehow
we
are
younger
than
we
were.
