Thousand Springs

about a green island fed by springs
the river swirls clearest of clear
like glass, just like glass,
holding bouquets of waving grasses

here on a green island fruit trees whorl
ripe with pears, redolent with plums
the grass stained with blood-red pulp
mashed underfoot like summer wine

across a green island lit by music
fields unfold full and festive
musicians weaving under the supple canopy
strangers dancing with strangers in falling sunlight

on a green island cached in the desert
before her soft and sinuous sweeps
an owl sings to us as we sing to her
to close a fat and honeyed day