I
It’s as if I’ve
trespassed
onto painting,
tapestry: here,
in three dimensions
an extravagant
profusion of what’s
always seemed
fantastical in
two, cushioning
the footsteps
of the Primavera’s
Flora or the hind
hooves of a unicorn,
his front ones in
his lady’s lap,
as she holds
a jeweled mirror
to his face.
II
So many
tiny species,
sprigs of color,
erupting
all at once
from a single
meadow,
III
a word I
first applied
to the waist-
high grass
encircling
a trio of electric
towers, shortcut
to the playground
near my house,
dense with
dandelions,
mislaid gloves,
grasshoppers,
papers, shards
of glass
IV
and, later,
to the short-
lived yearly
ruckus in
the crevices
that lurk –
usually snugly
incognito – in
the mountains
lording over
my adoptive
city, giddy
in their brief
reprieve from
snow: lupine
with a steady
flash of Indian
paintbrush,
columbine, sticky
aster, yarrow
V
not to mention
the occasional
moose or elk,
kestrel, downy
woodpecker,
bald eagle,
VI
pure rumor
to an East
Coast city kid
and well beyond
the bounds of
any reference
point in art
(I had never
much gone in
for Bierstadt)
VII
whereas here
(I’m in Portugal,
did I tell you that?
the interior,
the Alentejo)
the creatures
by far the most
conspicuous
are the ones
I’d thought only
sing at night. It
turns out they’ll
regale you at
any time at all —
dawn, high noon,
midnight, twilight.
No wonder Keats
asked Do I wake
or sleep?
VIII
And now Keats
will be forever
mixed up – along
with Flemish
needlewomen and
their Florentine
sidekick, the
flamboyant
then repentant
Botticelli – with
every teeming
meadow my
nightingale
conducts me to –
I carry no map, his
song’s a compass
if you’re headed
where I’m trying
to go – and here
it is, jam-packed
with diminutive
incarnations of
flowers I only know
from florist shops:
gladiolas, orchids,
pink carnations,
what emerged
from under Flora’s
feet in 1982
at the Palazzo
Vecchio, when
they unveiled
the newly restored
Primavera,
the brown on
brown I hadn’t
registered as floral
revealed as
efflorescent
paradise
IX
and here, where
the nightingale
has led me with
his song, it’s as if
the world itself
has been restored,
its stash of grace
long buried under
layers of varnish,
despite dubious
prospects,
undeterred,
pulling off
this Houdini-like
escape, cheered
on by a small
dun-colored bird.
X
The other day
I was stared
down by
an Egyptian
mongoose
(reputedly
descended
from the pack
of marauders
brought here
by the Moors
to fight off
snakes).
XI
Perhaps if I
put on some
gold brocade,
a pearl-studded
girdle and head-
dress, he’ll show
up next time
with a unicorn
in tow, who
won’t slink
off behind him
after snakes
XII
but linger
within ear-
shot of my
nightingale.
The runs
and trills
might lull
him into
sleep
XIII
but they might
embolden
him to place
his front hooves
in my lap and
nestle his hind
legs among lilies
of the valley,
gladiolas,
carnations,
Queen Anne’s
lace. And I’ll
be ready with
my jewel-
encrusted mirror
tilted almost
imperceptibly,
angling for
even the most
outside chance
to startle and
entrust him
with his face.