A garland of dry leaves
When flowers are out of season
Confers what little else then can.
A subsidy of fabulously fancy roses
When those heaped accolades are in
Mingles with the murmurs of sea in the saltpan.
The muttered thanks perfunctory, at the unneeded, of man.
The usual blunder of giving too much, too late peeves.

A timed convergence of high thought
Upon the concourse of specific measured space
Whittled like a rainbow out of the blue ,
Configurations of plain comprehension sought
Point beamed stark inexorably
Spot ineradicably on the grasping hand
And all is ascertainable, attainable, that’s true.