I have not the wit, my imagination is far too dull,
to imagine anything, anywhere, at any time,
to be as pure, as peaceful,
as stepping into the salad garden at dawn.
The leaning towers of lettuce gone to seed,
the mesclun thinned by appetite,
isolated beds of mint with soft, furred eyes,
and paths measured carefully in feet
of three or six or nine;
the morning air is sweet with dew
as last evening, drowsy was with wine.
This world around,
fragrant with the sound of birds,
is all I need to imagine Heaven,
though I will never find the words.