With crowds of roses following the path
To where Aurora rises from her bath,
The rosy clouds reflected in the stream
Are deeper than the water, it would seem.

A goldfinch flies high up into the air
And battles with the atmospherics there,
Then swoops to settle on a leafless twig,
His way to feel at home in rooms so big.

The little fists of chicory unclench
Where sparrows flit and find beneath a bench
A bit of plenty spilling from the horn.
Who’d guess that powder blue could be earthborn?