When all things work in perfect order,
God is in the purple water.
When sundown glutters upon the lake
amidst amethyst ripples and amber flakes
of goldfish scales shed in the tepid,
visible depths that want not intrepid
hearts to delve but softly breathing souls
to couch on silt or skim the rolls
of the gently curling surface;
this, indeed, divines true purpose.

When zephyrs turn up emerald fingers,
and nested eggs turn into singers
just hours after thunderless rain
from skies so temporarily grey,
this perfect order shows its face.
The zephyr dries the bending blades
so not to let them brown or roast
beneath Apollo's arching blows;
his arrows could tear and rip with spite,
but, under order, they bathe with light.

When gods of wind, of earth and sun
and awful sky all act as one,
then God becomes a single beast
with five-fold heads and twenty feet,
and on each foot a downy pad
between the claws that reprimand.
And when these god-feet paw the earth,
and claws strike only to till the dirt,
He'll head, straight after, for the water,
and the sun will set over perfect order.

04/29/2008

Author's Note: I took the liberty of inventing the word "glutter". I propose it to mean this: to shine with dullness, as moonlight might shine on dark water, or the way a purple light might reflect without exactly "glittering".

Posted on 04/29/2008
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