Poem: I Have Stumbled Into A Meadow

I Have Stum­bled Into A Meadow
By John Isbell

I have stum­bled into a meadow.
There is a pro­fu­sion of flow­ers on every side:
Lilacs, cro­cus­es, tulips, daf­fodils, irises.
Sub­lime chaos. The painter threw his palette in the air.
Heady bees drift from calyx to calyx,
Caress­ing the air with their hum.
This galaxy of flowers
Rests in the green void of the uncut grass,
Which tick­les my legs as I walk,
And fills my heart with a sense of rightness.
The sky arch­es over the whole scene, from hori­zon to horizon.
It is infi­nite­ly blue and cloud-studded:
The clouds have gra­da­tions in their white like fold­ed handkerchiefs.
As I begin to spin in the meadow,
I see the tree and cow that want to be in this poem.
The clouds like white can­vas reflect the flow­ers’ color,
As a small chin reflects a buttercup.
Every plan­et paus­es in the ecliptic.
In the rings of Sat­urn, the par­ti­cles listen.
One bee lands on one flower and is happy.

From Open Source Pol­i­tics. How many oth­er polit­i­cal sites give you almost-dai­ly dos­es of poet­ry like this?