Love's Four Riddles
As the moon bleaches the night,
eyes tread the stark field that has
few remnant weeds, no seeds.
Clasping dry twigs, hands
are cold, gone is the gold.
The clouds and wind despair
to shake the earthly mystique.
Angels’ ballad with the stars
gives the night its sun
as heat seizes the land.
Pebble's core melts and joins
God's nature's greats.
Forest hymns move hills
of meek unsuspecting heaven,
the steaming river rushes in.
A renewed life captures lives,
feathers flap and beaks open.
The earth welcomes the captives.
Prancing grass
exalts joyful existence!
poem by Ena N. Mori
Added by Poetry Lover
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