The cold moon has passed.
I nearly missed its palest pink.
Pastel heavy and belly round.
Now, waiting for solstice,
Meadow crowned with frost,
Its wilderness
Sitting in silhouette
Dew kisses the patient ones.
Their heads bowed
With elegant stems
So indeed does nothing stir,
And in the breach,
Mistakes are forgiven,
The lost are remembered,
The simplest is blessed.
That is why the silence is golden.
