To God It Seems As Though
Hills pull their blankets out
and leave bare their naked spines
permitting Junes and me
to Summer there
Streams must appear to Him
as traveling caravans
The painted leaves like prisms do
with hues of rumpled Persian rugs
All seems Persia has pulled it's banners out
and march off to the sea
Turbaned poplars and lakes like tents
Is it jocosity?
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