In the wintry grass

Photo©Emmanuel Boutet

In the wintry grass,

strung like lace,

frozen webs,

diamond spangled,

catch the dawn light.

 

Though autumn winds blow

and rain beats

and the bough bends,

the robin sings his winter song

and will sing

beneath the falling snow,

because he hopes in spring.

 

Star light,

not bright

as even the oldest moon,

pours

an eternal river,

from a time so far away,

the span of our little world,

a pinch of moondust

on a cosmic wind.

 

Raise your gaze

from the morning grass,

hung with crystal dew globes,

and scry the sky

for shooting stars.

One day they will fall

and hang in bright splinters

on winter blades of grass.

Advertisement