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A Birthing Frost
When finally those quickened hours come
that crept unseen behind tomorrow's door,
and waves of yesterdays upon me pour ~
few secrets left of just what might become.
In frost, the rush to harvest summer's yield,
when all of youth would break the vines of spring,
it seems an instant ~ now at last they cling,
impatient souls await in vineyard fields.
In warmth the sun of dawning will arise,
then weep upon your cheeks contented tears
and I will reach and sweep away your fears
when last I see the beauty of your eyes...
Copyright ©
Craig Cornish
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