I am the soft and silent spring
that well-oiled, whispers while it winds;
I am the scent of somber smoke
that wisps its wild way through the wood;
I am the gentle grasp of green
that in the spring succors the seed;
I am the tacit, tender touch
that germinates the garden grains.
I am the mist that mires the marsh,
the cloud that cloaks the clearing’s clover,
the wistful wind that wets the wheat
with drops of dew at new day’s dawning.
What good a world not filled with wonder?
What need this wandering without ways?
What use a wild that wants no wander?
6 FEB 2017
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