Dearer than gold is the grass underfoot.
What is an emerald to a mushroom?
What are your questions to the song of a bird?
What is death’s darkness to the soil beneath
each inch bursting with more life than the moon?
There sits no high god here, or everything
is a god, neither high nor low. A beetle
bristles with the same beauty as a stag
a toad with the speckled galaxies that wheel
far above our heads, the inevitable
starlings unfurling their scarf in the sky.
The cow doesn’t ask more. Neither should you.
In the grass, the sating of multitudes.
In the dirt, the counterpart of heaven.
In the wildwood, the greenest of pastures.
In pale morning, the abode of the swan.
In dusk, ageless ivy, the autumn-red vine.
In the furrow, treasures beyond compare.
And of every worn tale, this you should know:
poets name the walled garden paradise.