How beautifully the rushing
All molten gold across the stones,
Pours into pools of cloud and sky,
Paints a scrim across the deep.
Yesterday the milky grass
Made a blanket for the bones
Of all the birds who questioned why,
Trilling wonder in their cheep.
How magically the morning brass
Eases our phantasmic moans,
Ripples salmon in the eye
'Ere the gauzy end of sleep.
So, too, the syllables that
Directly over silent thrones,
And thoughts that, graceful, slide right by
Yon mysteries that dragons keep.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon