Doorways light because the trees are like lambs
in the blue sky morning, wearing May green.
The wind is pacific and brings a band
of wool white clouds in boundless skein.
Doorways ope because the morning is true
as it plays the cymbals of the poplar rows:
gladness of leaves, like Easter drops strewn,
brandishing light out of teeth-skin winnows.
Doorways weep because a fragrant departure
has left a door wide on easy hinges,
feather-fingering the taut strings of heart,
a glory disheveling at the rush-like fringes.
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