Through the tops of path-lining trees
love must filter, dappled sunlight
reaching to illuminate the lover’s walk.
Holding hands, they must see behind sunlight
the angelic halos of those who let it flow forth
from tilted jugs belonging to purer worlds.
While meanwhile the leaves, I am certain,
hold conference with each other
as the lovers pass below–
winking at those who also belong to
the Eternal Secret.
The spots where lovers kiss–
sprawled on the grass, elbows touching–
or sitting on park benches knocking
bare knees together.
Divine alters where the mundane
Wherever they go, the lovers see Heaven–
and, rejoicing, rainbow songbirds
flock to the soon-to-burst white
spring buds of the trees shadowing
the lover’s path, to stick out their
little breasts and sing…
I imagine, though I am left in
the lovers’ wake, but not transformed.