And there, amidst the blossoms, you were,
while the dewy ground was painting its tableaus
beautifully with the feather of your multi-hued treads,
bestowing upon the flowering
all that appeared of your other colors—
a charming beauty harboring mysteries.
And you trod lightly upon the soil as Spring,
if not a piece of Paradise itself,
that God willed to suddenly descend
within the dense grove of May.
And I beheld your radiance
bereaving the blossoms of their breath—
blossoms bowing their heads in bashful grace
before your Majesty—sublimely brighter
than the splendor of March.
And there I stood, astounded,
engrossed in a reverberating question:
“Are you the Goddess Flora?”
And I whispered to myself:
What once I beheld in the distant horizon—
the rainbow in the almanac of days gone by,
here now has come, a revelation drawn
from the archive of the rains.
And dewdrops I beheld,
brushing against your dress,
pleated with shifting phases:
A phase through which a light brilliantly unfolded,
to glisten like stars keeping vigil over the deep;
and another—for the butterflies at play,
mending the buttons.
And there wafted your sweetest fragrance;
its scent intoxicated me for an age yet to come.
And when your moment of egress fell,
I wept: “If only the blossoms
could rear high walls!”
