The ditches declare the glory of God,
as if the sower emptied all his pockets here in a springtime ramble,
and his very footprints sprouted daisies in thanks,
all shouting “He loves me!” with glad, golden hearts.
And the rose whose dignity was sorely tried in January
now perfumes the edge of the old cow pasture,
unfurling the essence of June
and the secret of all who wait for their one true love.