In humble golden pastures
Folding into endless skies,
Frost perched atop the sprays of stalks
Threw suns into my eyes.
If mottled marbled welts of snow
Ebbing slowly into themselves
Know their place before the mountains
And the morn that is their knell,
Then I too bow as the cold seeps in,
Like those humble stalks beneath the wind.
No comments:
Post a Comment