The Maiden Grass
It is a sharp, silver day - Made by a wind Grieving. Trees and reeds sway to bend, Sway to bend But the goldfinch rubs His little head On the spray Delicate and red With an unmoveable agenda, And the maiden grass Stands back up, her Feather tips falling Into the sun's Closing prayer. Even as the cold air stings, I see softness And the pencil grey clouds allow a Moment for the plumes of straw To be spun into gold, Spun into gold. LJ Ireton 2024