Heaven must be
That old dream
Of my garden, but lasting

When I wake, the leaves
Seem to shred
In the wind like manuscripts

The pollinated
Jungleland
Becomes a sodden ivy

And bouldered ruins
Shrink to squares
In patios that are quite brown

If those sights lasted
If there was
No alarm to disturb

Me, I would see a
Cosmic light
Projected through the woodland

Like a patch of
Certainty
Through the coils of my own brain