Stars above flash in their envy;
The Stream below’s crying out loud.
Even the Lady Moon turns away,
Concealing her face in a shroud.
A body of crimson Trees shiver.
Cricket-song rises, protest!
An ancient Wood full of enchantment
Knows no spell to give it rest.
Are these the days of Beginning–
Or is it the start of the End?
We could not comprehend the green,
But let us now pretend.
Why would a Firefly flicker,
Or a Vining-plant tangle in plight?
Were they not made in perfection?
Wouldn’t their burden be light?
What has a Flower to pine for?
What makes Stars fall from above?
Perhaps the answer is simple:
In their beauty, they want Love.
Mariella Hunt 