His Father Called the Indian River’s Cumulus Clouds the Mountains of the Sunshine State
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He never rode on horseback through the trees
Around his childhood bedroom, only went
Through them in Florida’s faint, dark green breeze
With boys (his cousins) and his brothers, spent
Daydreamy hours of boyhood joy among
The white and yellow blossoms in their aisles
Of holiness unrecognized, all hung
With orange globes of sweetness, tartness, files
Of golden spheres, gold ranks and ranks from God’s
Creating hand and breath. These brilliant orbs
Were paralleled by purity of lauds
That song-like playing innocence absorbs.
He maybe dreamed of these in bedroom nights
Far better than the scenes of Alpine heights.
~ Phillip Whidden
wallup.net