On roadsides,⠀
in fall fields,⠀
in rumpy branches,⠀
saffron and orange and pale gold,⠀
⠀
in little towers,⠀
soft as mash,⠀
sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerets⠀
⠀
and orange butterflies.⠀
I don't suppose⠀
much notice comes of it, except for honey,⠀
and how it heartens the heart with its⠀
⠀
blank blaze. ⠀
I don't suppose anything loves it except, perhaps,⠀
the rocky voids⠀
filled by its dumb dazzle.⠀
⠀
For myself,⠀
I was just passing by, when the wind flared⠀
and the blossoms rustled,⠀
and the glittering pandemonium⠀
⠀
leaned on me.⠀
I was just minding my own business⠀
when I found myself on their straw hillsides,⠀
citron and butter-colored,⠀
⠀
and was happy, and why not?⠀
Are not the difficult labors of our lives⠀
full of dark hours?⠀
And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,⠀
⠀
that is better than these light-filled bodies?⠀
All day⠀
on their airy backbones⠀
they toss in the wind,⠀
⠀
they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend,⠀
they rise in a stiff sweetness,⠀
in the pure peace of giving⠀
one's gold away.