Lily of the Valley
I run under trees through morning mist
when all is blue and the branches of trees
are shadows resembling fractals of ink.
Dew-tipped grasses rest their heads on me
and cobwebs hang in dark, sticky places
beneath arching branches bent over with leaves.
I breathe in and fly down a curved gravel road
I make my way through air thick and wet
with the green, sticky substance from which life is made.
I descend into darkness, where tree trunks and leaves
are the sun and the sky, and the dandelion seed
is alive and flies and perches on my shoulder.
The end of the trail is a sloping descent
into a valley of softness, and the feeling of dew
sprouting freshly on my cheek is a single tear wept
by the face of another, a face framed by flowers.
In a light I am bathed, a gentle white light
from a tender stem glowing, and a blossoming sun
bent sadly downwards, cupped with round petals
rains soft, silken rays illuminating the ground.
