Rocks are the way to the river where wild
ducks swoop and swoon in relaxed profusion.
Here inside time, instead, shutters close to light,
the three remaining dimensions inverted
in shimmering drips along jalousie panes.
First there is rain. Then gales of radiant
green and gold blow by in irridescent gusts.
Crescents shine out of concave leaf and petal.
No sound straggles out of sequence. Even
drops off eaves and lashes patter to a beat.
O, the spectral symmetry of the elms,
retinal veins through which suns stagger
on stilts, suturing folds of soil and sky.