Clouds stained and stretched
Like overlapped, pulled thin
Butterfly wings pinned
Around the rolling-silk,
Last-light-of today sun
As it leaks to pale skins after
Sheets of April-vengeance hail.
I’m sitting at a windows machine
Wondering if I can believe the numbers;
Take the cold carborundum pressures.
Here, I truly believe, we could plant,
Could surely grow, might sustain Paradise:
Legacy, pass-along gardens that would
Proudly carry standards out of history
… into the future.