These pastel, tiptoe days
are a furtive, forest chalice,
for winter wistfulness
I want to carry them
with mountain grace
and reverent brushstrokes
I want to sing them
light
and murmur them
dark
and chatter them
posy colours
I want my children
to remember them
silver-soft
like a dance,
a firefly dance,
a sparkle-night moment
in tranquil forest awe,
remember them
in grey and gracious
arabesques
remember them
golden-warm
in sunbeam pathways
across the park
and the ocean
and to Heaven
and back
in golden circle smiles
(25 March 2006)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem