A shawl of beaded pearls

I walk into the misty morning that engulfs me with cold welcome and elusive gray white nebulas of streaming smoke.

In among the purple top there are witch’s brooms that only show themselves on these morning hours, when their magic is most potent.

The fox tail has gone white with the hunt of the night, and there is a thip, thip, thip, as droplets of dew tumble from leaf to leaf of a nearby ash.

The cold on my cheek reminds me that fall is at summer’s heels, and that this mist will soon transform into frost.

This mist, which now reveals a shawl of beaded pearls draped between two towering stalks of grease grass.

How can I describe this wonder of the weaver and the morning, hanging there as if tossed by a fisherman upon the waters.

There is one strand strung in perfect measure, dipping in splendor as if laid on the neck of some beautiful young girl.

Each bead along the strand, a faultless sphere that reflects the sky, the earth, myself.

How can I describe this perfect strand, among a hundred perfect strands.

And there in the corner of the shawl rest the weaver, waiting for the morning sun to find her.

How is it my lady, that you weave this shawl in the first dark of evening, and then string it with pearls in the passing of such a night?

How is it that these pearls, of such value to my heart, slip from your shawl in the morning’s light, as surely and illusively as the mist that made them?

How is it that we go about our lives every day among the machines, and miss the elegance of this miracle that you and your sisters have made a million times over?

I wrote this poem several years ago after a morning walk on the farm. I took the photo at the same time.