The morning sky forgot to ask your leave
To paint itself in shades of pale and gold,
And yet it blooms, though left alone to grieve,
And wraps the chilly pavement from the cold.
You do not need to be a blazing sun
To justify the turning of the spheres;
The quiet hours where nothing’s really done
Still count the quiet courage of your tears.
So let the kettle sing a tiny song,
And let the heavy blankets hold you tight;
You haven’t been forgotten, or gone wrong—
You’re just a seed asleep inside the night.
And while the winter tries to claim the hill,
The little green is resting, waiting still.
2026-10-17 00:25:18
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