Another day painted in glimmering pastels
Low-lying grass bowing under a string of pearly dew-drops,
And the sun, ripe and heavy as the oranges
In the orchards Bartholomew used to own,
Tangled in the branches in its heaven-bound quest.
Another morning glittering pink and gold with promise,
Leaves sprawled over the far-away horizon in lazy fractals,
And the moon, pale and sparkling,
Bidding the world a quiet farewell
As the sun at last ascends, victorious.