Pale, then enkindled, 
light 
advancing, 
emblazoning 
summits of palm and pine, 

the dew 
lingering, 
scripture of 
scintillas. 

Soon the roar 
of mowers 
cropping the already short 
grass of lawns, 

men with long-nozzled 
cylinders of pesticide 
poking at weeds, 
at moss in cracks of cement, 


and louder roar 
of helicopters off to spray 
vineyards where braceros try 
to hold their breath, 

and in the distance, bulldozers, excavators, 
babel of destructive construction. 

Banded by deep 
oakshadow, airy 
shadow of eucalyptus, 

miner's lettuce, 
tender, untasted, 
and other grass, unmown, 
luxuriant, 
no green more brilliant. 

Fragile paradise. 

        .  .  .  . 

At day's end the whole sky, 
vast, unstinting, flooded with transparent 
mauve, 
tint of wisteria, 
cloudless 
over the malls, the industrial parks, 
the homes with the lights going on, 
the homeless arranging their bundles. 

        .  .  .  . 

Who can utter 
the poignance of all that is constantly 
threatened, invaded, expended 


and constantly 
nevertheless 
persists in beauty, 

tranquil as this young moon 
just risen and slowly 
drinking light 
from the vanished sun. 

Who can utter 
the praise of such generosity 
or the shame?