There is at least one echo left

of that Edenic majesty of our
sepia-tinted mythology.
It sings a jumbled chorus of
mating calls and lets an impish breeze
swirl through it insouciantly.
It bathes in star radiance and calls forth
from the ruddy, burgeoning earth
its dizzying array of children.
It revels in its ignorance
of soul destroying dawns
and cradles those
privileged to exult in it
like a mother who never grew old
and who will in fact
hold us gently in the hour of our
fortunate death.