UNTITLED (IN YOUR BARE FEET YOU CAN'T TOUCH A PLACE)
In your bare feet you can’t touch a place
That isn’t ripe with myrtle or with Queen Anne’s lace -
The fungus that a day ago was mold
Is moss now, growing uncontrolled;
Where once the winter, now a daisy weaves,
On which the sun seeps through the leaves -
Fluorescent lawns invest the breeze
With gentians, daffodils, and bees,
The world inexplicably become
A meadow dotten with the sun.
What happens here is just a model
For the universe’s cosmos throttle -
The natural world is just a hint
Of the spirit's finer print.
Each vine has something it can teach:
Since yesterday the land has had to reach,
And if you take the ground as heaven’s thermostat,
I wonder what my daughter’s teachers make of that?