Yellow grasses turn silver in the light of the moon,
Sleepily they hum and shiver, whispering their quiet hymns.
Cornflowers yawn as the fireflies flicker,
Carrying on about rain, or a misty June evening,
Or whatever it is that fireflies talk about.
Stars drape low and silent amongst this voiceless conversation,
Standing in noiseless solidarity over the velvet surface of the sky.
Perhaps tomorrow the stars will speak,
Coaxed into sermon by the moon’s quiet promptings,
Their voices rich, and as musical as cellos.
To discuss silence and its reverent nature,
The way it can seem so very loud, heavy with rhapsodous weeping,
Or the soft sort of hope that blooms with spring daisies.
They’ll speak ceaselessly in voices of silk and fire,
About orchids and the meaning of life.
Although, for now, the stars are quiet,
Content to watch yellow grasses turn silver in the light of the moon,
Listening with the cornflowers to the fireflies’ soft repose,
As they carry on about rain, or a misty June evening,
Or whatever it is that fireflies talk about.
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