The naiads have splurged with roses.

Swirls of scented air hover above their clearings.

Without petals and stars they cannot dwell

beneath the glass shine…

Day dreamers see their unfading beauty

in the sands of the fountains.

Their love is

imprecise

built on a foundation

of unicorn-green grass…

Their skeleton

is composed of myrtle and oleander

and moss-covered lungs

heave along with waters driven

by tide…

Their flesh is irrational atoms

that laugh the blood

and rhythm of life

in the veins

that sing the helplessness blues.

White hymnal doors

flung open

on Midsummer’s Eve

at the harvest of ripe and lofty words

and lady’s bedstraw

they found

in the flicker of buried treasures.

Their words shield

the scent of a tuberose

and shelter

the spoils of the evening.

They sing in the wind

“Leave this war with me!”

It is never too late

nor too soon

to wager

on…