The browning thatch is cut

With spikes of lime-like green,

And translucent trees abut

The shrinking glacial sheen;


The sky is clear, the air is brisk,

The day is warm enough 

That bolder flowers risk 

Their fragile waving fluff,


And now the time is come to see

The clouds and fields through screens,

To sift the meadow's filigree

In reticulated scenes,


Dividing all the spring's ambition

Into silky cloisonnés,

As my watching eyes partition

The view into a maze,


Confining now a passing bee

In the panoramin panes

To a blur of vertebrae,

A world of jigsaw veins,


Printing on the blazing sun

A grid of pipes and wires 

That lays a fragile skeleton

On the sky's incremental pyre,


And as the planet lazes

Under summer's coming grass,

The pattern in the window glazes 

Every pistil under glass:


A hedged-in world of hills and streams

That expands as it restrains;

Like DNA, a labyrinth that teems

With every blossom it contains.


November 2nd, 1999