The world creeps without a name,
the roads lead honestly through bathtub grottos
of the Blessed Virgin in beautiful rows
up a hill and olive grove. She is nestled
in starry blue spangles of gold,
cracked vases of wildflowers tucked in
and picked by children making shows.
These flowers shelter the forests,
I hear them in prayer for us. Psalms and psalng
rising near pastures, bells, and paths
in silence—cowled acolytes censer the grass,
giving glories to the good God Alone.
The world creeps without a name.