Is My Oyster

Back in the woods, not the deep woods,
(There are no more really deep woods,
Not of the kind made of forests,
Only those Black Forests of dreams),

The enameled blue lid of sky
Clicks snugly over peaks and trees,
And jeweled heat glows from inside,
And the observer is a pearl,

A diorama, a dancer,
A revolving scenario
Folded in the bright box of day,
Content for the lid not to open.