On the first day The willows bowed before his feet Where he crossed the watershed Against the lifting sun And the grass was green As his shadow passed The morning glory by the hedge. Tuesday The plum was first, Small and shy and chaste In white on gnarled russet twig. But mid-morning when the peach Was flushed in pink to pique the apricot High noon in purple Took him by the hand And walked him down the bitter almond Garden path. Day three Was honey gold in hive And Thursday daybreak Golden in his mouth. Friday He sang all day full-throated to The listening earth Pied-piper at his heels. Where the wind blew There sang the bugles of Byzantium. Saturday He looked upon his work And laughed to see it good, His craft infinite in his hands and heart. Then was the seventh day.