It was a dangerous day.
The earth was shining
and the sun drank its joy.
The little goat was chomping columbine.
All the ladies smelled of sweet milk.
The old folk sold their recipes.
All the women followed them.
The men ate, pulled off their boots
and wiggled their toes.
The trout responded to the water
and the hermit found his herbs nearby.
The radiance of circles had never been 
wider, more-one-inside-of-the-other.
Who began to feed the goat
the pages of a book?
Who began to feed the goat
the tragedies of Shakespeare?
What would we do without them?