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?