You little purple ones who smell of nothing
and speak in specks of radiance over meadows
and the briefest patch of grass your pretty names
invoke the mostly girly and grandmotherly admiration –
you have the charm of youth unraveled in the passing years –
yours is the truest virtue of pleasing without knowing – from what
I know of piety, you are children of some lonely, wasteland god who seeks
delightful company and proliferates his reasons to confide in mortal friends.