Watch the grass shy in advent-
It shall cry;
Sheltered in its bedewed scent.
See an olive moss soak-
It shall dry;
Sown sleepily under a sloughing oak,
Bitten by seasons forlorn oath.
See the wind in plume-
It shall die;
Pollen reminiscent in its womb-
Of the time it flew.
Hear the tickling note-
It’s that time;
Bronzed leaves jingle in float-
Their artlessness speaks it all:
Chained to all.