Hundreds of times have I walked this grass path.
At sunset, when all things are caught in a golden, rosey glow
I come wistfully, aching for release:
To be released into the great clouds
Or the haying odor of the fields
Or the comfort of the rustling grasses....
This field, stretching out hilly views and summer vibrance
Is my eucharist
A necklace is strung in the grass
Flashing threads and colors, a fine spider web
So many shy away from its thoughtful grace
Or sweep it away so casually
The burden of this casual destruction snares me
And I am trapped, so weary with casualty, on the grass path.
A spider swings up from hiding, oblivious to my inertia
Testing threads, spinning magic
Spider survival, living out spider’s gift with spider’s grace
Casualty is not his, after all.
My burden of weariness I softly lay aside.
No comments:
Post a Comment