Hippocrene

WITH you,
I sup on singing birds
And drink hot sunlight cooled with clouds.

With you,
I ride the slanting winds,
Toss colored balls back and forth over the moon,
Swing up through trees,
And slide down swiftly upon beds of irises.

When you are here,
we stack words at the end of a rainbow
And bowl at them with swan’s eggs.

We run races through grass
to old bronze temples, And sitting under marble porches,
Count daisy petals to the tapping of a bell.

We leap from steeples,
And land in flowered palaces.

In cedar-scented parlors you tell me tales,
Long, slow tales, strummed lightly on a lute;
And I lie on blue cushions and watch the sea and hear your voice.

With you,
I do all these things —
How therefore should I care to gabble with the donkey-men,
To gossip with the old women who sell turkeys,
To watch my next-door neighbor plait her hair and lament the untoward price of butter.

Until you come I will sit here alone, by a quiet window,
And, with a fine brush, trace little pictures
To show you when you return.