From trees outside the window — window trees

Abandoning their flowers lately bloomed —

The petals settle, patterning the lawn,

Until its green is all one great Tabriz

In pink and white the summer may have loomed

And laid down for the wind to walk upon.

It’s so deep-piled — so plush and tight and thick —

The warp can’t be distinguished from the weft.

As hard as you can look to spot the trick,

There’s no intended tiny error left.

Perhaps the maker felt some special pride

Devoid of that humility denied

Creators whose perfection makes them yawn.

Soon this, though, like the weaver, will be gone.