On roadsides, in fall fields, in rumpy bunches,
saffron and orange and pale gold, in little towers,
soft as mash, sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,
full of bees sand yellow beads and perfect flowerlets and orange butterflies.
I don’t suppose much notice comes of it, except for honey,
and how it heartens the heart with its blank blaze.
I don’t suppose anything loves it, except, perhaps, the rocky voids filled by its dumb dazzle.
For myself, I was just passing by, when the wind flared
and the blossoms rustled, and the glittering pandemonium leaned on me.
I was just minding my own business when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
citron and butter-colored, and was happy, and why not?
Are not the difficult labors of our lives full of dark hours?
And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,
that is better than these light-filled bodies?
All day on their airy backbones they toss in the wind,
they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend,
they rise in a stiff sweetness, in the pure peace of giving one’s gold away.
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