Who doesnt love
roses, and who
doesnt love the lilies
of the black ponds
floating like flocks
of tiny swans,
and of course, the flaming
trumpet vine
where the hummingbird comes
like a small green angel, to soak
his dark tongue
in happiness -
and who doesnt want
to live with the brisk
motor of his heart
singing
like a Schubert
and his eyes
working and working like those days of rapture,
by Van Gogh in Arles?
Look! for most of the world
is waiting
or remembering -
most of the world is time
when were not here,
not born yet, or died -
a slow fire
under the earth with all
our dumb wild blind cousins
who also
cant even remember anymore
their own happiness -
Look! and then we will be
like the pale cool
stones, that last almost
forever.
