Invariably stopped short beneath,
you all but turn away your gaze:
This tree: all buds, all fragrance and brilliancy
all yields itself from twig to branch
‘Can you see, how well my intent and yield make out?’
A starry sky I call my roof,
And as you marvel at the skies at night
as in a budding tree up there all dangles,
a crown, neatly snowed over,
baring a million stars.
A heavenly kingdom
squandering itself for joy and solace –
Ever thought of it that way?