Sweet the silent dew drop lies
bathed in morning’s glory,
held where drying grasses try
to sing their summer’s story.
Surrendered to this seam in time,
season’s change is thus
captured in a fleeting rhyme
reflected in the still pond’s trust.
Sacred scent in quiet kept
to stone the gold yet fatter,
coax the maple’s red, so wept,
and bath this dream of tatters
heaped in drying leaves,
seed adrift to winter’s stock,
bare the trodden footpath brown,
expose the hidden sleeping rocks.
Stolen to this reverie
the tempered sky lays best
of what so few will ever see
and grants the pond’s untold request
to drift a water coloured sigh
across this captured morn’,
bless the eyes in witness here,
as season’s change in image born.
jaybluepoems 