By Thomas Page
Whatever brilliant shade that happens
Upon a petal or blade inspires
The mind’s eye to a world hued with the
Intensity of everlasting springs
That beget ever-knowing happiness.
Nature preserved in Keats’ frieze, an urn
Adorned with the ultimate perfection
As gauged by an imperfect eye wishing
For it to be so. Shades with no name and
Tints to be invented by brains thirsting
For a more ordered universe out there.