the self same fields
that late last night
were glowing in the
autumn warmth
are this morning
deeply sleeping
in blankets
of mist and rime
across the hill
the village slowly
blinks its eyes
as blinds and
curtains drawn give
rather than receive
the morning light
and still the Rhine flows
relentless to the sea
and in this misty corner
where the sun still hiding
brings our vines to harvest
I wonder if my life ahead
will turbulent as the river be
or shall I climb in peace
the wooded hills
through clinging mist
to raise my arms
towards the sun
and embrace
the wonderment
of being
I think this already "embraces the wonderment of being". The poem has risen to its own occasion, who could ask for more. Beauty, and strength not yet known, speak the promise. Very nice. Thanks.
