Springing Jack

Green wooden leaves clap fight away,

Severely practical, as they

Shelter the children, candy-pale,

The chestnut-candles flicker, fail......

The showman's face is cubed clear as

The shapes reflected in a glass

Of water - (glog, glut, a ghost's speech

Fumbling for space from each to each).

The fusty showman fumbles, must

Fit in a particle of dust

The universe, for fear it gain

Its freedom from my box of brain.

Yet dust hears seeds that grow to grace

Behind my crude-striped wooden face.

As I, a puppet tinsel-pink,

Leap on my springs, learn how to think,

Then like the trembling golden stalk

Of some long-petalled star, I walk

Through the dark heavens until dew

Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through.