Intricate fountains trickle the sun,
Each summer petal
Still wrought with fits of May-
Its rusting light
Yet glowing from soft rains.
An exquisite, empty welcome;
Slow dreams
Drape easy and blooming-
The only color to perfect itself
After spilled canvas debut.
Each daylight chandelier
With its fine pale joints
Serves its own revelry,
As a rooted heart, not yet worn,
Sleeps on.
