A rocky mountain moved by faithful rains
which trickle underneath in rivulets
without such love could flow the smallest grain

Sew charity of golden amulets

as leaflets fall from trees my palms in want
my body laid to waste upon a stage
in failing love a quil with fading font
papyrus reeds like shadows on the page

The hands of love loom steady in the storm
as gentle as a dove in plumage clothed
embracing crumbs despite a tepid warm
a modest sheep amongst the flock betrothed

Thus fleeced in wool as pearly as the snow
a wooden nickel ever bends the bow

It’s hooves upon the hearth and fireplace
to scrape a singe of orange crackling flame
as blind before a shearer gives its face
yet never holds a mirror up to blame

Love’s feet skip light in meadows minted sage
in crystal glass of purple dappled hues
its blossoms cleanse and never seem to age
another sunset, another morning dew

Despite the wintry weather and the chills
a seedling threads the weeds to brush the sky
from palate to the canvas daffodils
the buttercup attracts the butterfly

With just a drop the waterwheel flows
and through the soil dancing orchards grow