You were the first green flush, so very sweet,
On a springtime field of early wheat.
Too young but for the lightest tread;
Beauty, yes, but also bread.
You were the spangled dew that rests
At dawn, upon a Summer morning lawn.
Reflecting, in each perfect drop, a world
We thought would never stop.
You were the delicate silver lace, of old,
That hangs, like smoke, in Autumn's gold.
The long dark trails our footsteps made
In the grass were never meant to fade.
You are the cold, white shroud of Winter, deep,
Covering the land with unquiet sleep.
