The chalice lies in the sward
A trace of burgundy
On its rim,
Shining against the blue,
Way above the skein and their cry.
Bare feet laugh in red glaze
As you feel the fanciful
Smell of dewy skin.
I say eternity is born
In the green of the spring
And stays alive in the tall grass
Where I can lay a forgiving embrace
On my deeply imperfect moments.
Is the sun to my side alone,
Or does it warm your bareness as well?