Mosaics in the garden.
Our room for living is pale yellow and full red,
where we may peer towards that rosy garden,
that tiled, speckled, slathered garden.

I see a Chinese bay beyond,
for all manner of junk floats the streetish high-seas
in the again gale of afternoon.

Gained is rain and then asked for is sunshine.
So received is sunshine. Blessed, felt, caressed is sunshine.
Light seems to be the pearl,
purling away from the oysterich air, whose desires to chase
are full of joy;

so I see the game from from this room,
pale yellow and filled red.

So many paths on which to orbit the teeming world,
one that is not worse as folk say
or please to think.
Because I am pleased to think,
of the current calm, which is not common,
found in these
all things....

Of mosaics in the garden
and beyond of ships.
Of light, of rain,
and overall of sunshine.