Running the field like deer

We must bring
in the spring time when the lilacs
bloom tenderly and softly
swaying in the wind

Perfect joy
to rest upon the lips of men and
hearts of women and the fingertips
of children and the souls of the old

And perfect love
to tremble and quake the sky to
remember what is really true
to ache no longer and to run the fields
like deer

We must bring
the memory of perfection in the woodlands
shimmering with hope and glory
remembering the soft green grasses
emerald we ran upon
barefooted and glimmering

Fairy powder in our brains dusting
to forget the long winter behind

Bringing to Mother's children oblivion
of once were
the dripping grapes again
rest our souls