Can I hold on to this moment?
Can I captivate the new-born chill,
the knowing we decided we’ll
leave sleepy warmth and dark behind
and footfall through the early quiet?
We don’t mind the misty sky:
beneath our feet, the path is dry.
Across the street, by old stone wall,
some old, big trees drape over all
who join them, briefly, wear the crown
of thousands green leaves looking down
with whispered curiosity
and musings on the world they see.
We step beneath the leafy host
and stop, for this is truly close
to magic. Every leaf above us
gathered every drop of mist
within its reach, rolled it together
for a private, separate weather.
Captured by their wet applause
you and I look up, and pause.
We hear rain fall all around.
Not a drop spills on the ground.