IF ALL

If all
one’s days
were
sips of light
and summer’s
flood of inhaling flare
teased and tickle
by perpetual degree
as a ceaseless season of style,
then would a dawn
always bring
glorious gifts
of perpetual delusions of divinity?
Or would
a residue of spiritual moods,
still remain undressed
in need of bandages and balm
along with the ointment of a smile
to mirror Eden’s doorway
without the eye?