I could drift across this meadow
to reach the ancient cave of dreams;
but will tarry here ‘pon a stone
and let you come to me it seems.

Naked toes tickled the clover
as you danced about in Spring,
and were it not for silver dew
I might have missed your laughing.

I know you loved soft thistles so,
apurple midst life’s hidden thorn;
and knee high grasses tell of thee —
faint waving on a Summer morn.

Golden leaves would mask your passing
as the silent tears keep falling;
but I know footprints still lay there
need I hope for future’s calling.

and now the frost of predawn hush
shines silver echo of the moon;
come then again to me my friend
as Godlight warms my heart in tune.

Again and still we are reborn
as Winter hints of budding Spring;
and what I will be is of we,
in the braid of seasoned being.