Luxuriant Skies
Bent and crooked with
asphalt-sweaty ditches,
lined in sunny oak trees
with tangled picket fences.
The heaven lord,
painting relics in the air;
and though its flowers always fade,
it was all that was there.
Finding its way
in wandering spires,
while the familiar to and fro
of the silent height transpires.
Here, beneath a tree
and luxuriant skies,
these steps become a notion
as the last mile dies.
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