Green crests the sun’s belly,
Down that western way.
When bullseye flowers sing
To dusk, and pray.
Pale petals peel the fraying day.
Then bright moons come;
Fling a twinkling cape
Of stars over the lonely grass.
And butterflies which butter-hum,
Or are they crickets? Jumping
In the croaking shrub.
Thorn-blankets wake me,
Where, content, I lay.
My dewy bed of flowers say:
Be with me, be!
In blooming hymn to bluing day.
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