He's there,
in a distant
place, where snow stays on the
mountain and bells ring like coral
tines, struck
in pine
air . . . where tigers lurk among soft,
striped leaves, and wild lupines
reach up to pierce
the sky.

He's there,
in a distant
place, where honey's suckled
by tiny things that flit or buzz
or float . . .
with wings
sometimes slow, fast, iridescent!
Things with stingers, tongues, or
feelers cool to
the touch.

He's there,
in a distant
place, where globe thistles bow
and sway . . . where sundrops spin through a
crystal,
while the
bachelor unbuttons its vest
and rests in a heady
maze of vivid
pink phlox.

He's there,
in a distant
place, where thyme flowers creep
through the veins of a maiden fern
in stone . . .
there, where
columbine angels peek beneath
petunia halos . . . there,
reciting his
poems.