IF HE WERE NOT ENTHRALLED .... by ALFRED FRANCIS KREYMBORG

Her parasol's a mushroom turned a bowl
Pale shadows fill with violet that serves
To cool the heat of the sun (before it swerves,
And skies remove it from their buttonhole,
To dip it in the night, refresh the soul) --
A bowl some hidden twitch of anxious nerves
Just touches, tilts a little, so its curves
Won't spill a single shadow from her pool:

If he were not enthralled with meditation,
His fingers might turn players, gently harry
Light zither strings to carry mediation,
Bring sight and sound with resonance to tarry:
But he can only breathe a phrase more frail,
And leave releasing to the nightingale.

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