The King of the Flowers

I met the King of the Flowers
some time ago, one afternoon.
The rainbow tint of his skin,
and his crown of paper,
attracted my attention.

The town of the King of the Flowers
is far away in the woods,
two inches behind the sun.
Every tenant in a flower
and love on every floor.

The King of the Flowers has lizards
that sing from leap to leap.
He has battalions of small bees,
and spiders, and slugs,
and beautiful birds.

The King of the Flowers works and works.
(His people also work.)
He tumbles down the forests of tall grass,
he sails in the puddles of country water.

The King of the Flowers has his factories
under the ground.
Each worker makes a flower,
which will grow in spring.
If they don’t,
a fly will rain them out.

Over the florid fields
of the King of the Flowers,
I see my son,
and there a voice calling for him:
He was left in two pieces
by a bomb that just fell.