Max Michelson

From “Masks”

THE FEW rosy cloud-splotches

In the bluish-white afternoon sky

Shed down ruddy flowers of light—

Big, capriciously shaped lilies and orchids—so thickly

That some, held at the stems, stood as if growing straight from the grass.

Among them he came—short, heavy, a little ragged,

With eyes and lips that had laughed much with wine;

Faintly-drunk, as if wine-vapors of the past were hovering in his head;

Blowing his flute and dancing,

Now fast, now slow, and now stopping … listening …

An earth-flower among the light flowers.

Tired, he dropped down on the grass.

The light-flowers caressed his cheeks and his drowsy eyes with their cloud-like coolness—piling about him.

Did the trees understand?

The birds sang

As though it were a sunrise.