Dried Grass

With whispers of dried
Grass, depressed flowers
In the leaves of a book
Blowing open
With the wind, on the
Table.

Frosted glass reveals no
Dew on the garden, winter
Where the speckled pearls
Fall on stoney ground
Fire's blaze

Caressed by sheets of mist,
The lamplight in the early
Morning in the garden
Was I alone

Damp twigs on the forest
Floor, fir cones, shrivelled
Leaves and last year's
Sweet wrappers

Every morning must
Have been like this
I said, to the
Oak tree
At the bottom of
The garden.