The sandpaper lick of meadow grass
sheds a prickly cascade
as we brush along cloven paths.
Blueprints that boot-heels cross,
made familiar by generations.
Half-moons in the wheat betray
the subterranean slumber of well-fed kittens.
A run-riddled bejewelled tangle
of velveting bitter globes
promise sustenance for winter feathers.
Why scurry down these lines,
cowed by meantimes,
whilst others bumble and flutter?
Every leaf rests in it’s own completeness;
the generosity of ceaseless smallness
kindness itself.