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I step into the meadow gingerly,
though heavy are my feet from grief,
wild things surround me, stars
drift in, like teenage boys, the sky,
home to the moon seems far
and made from layers of gray clouds,
reflecting images inside the lake
so still that I can hear my beating heart.
What will you do, the echo asks,
is sleep or death your alter aim?
So, come! The sound of the old oak,
its creaky voice invites and reassures,
just rest a while, down at my feet
the moss has waited for this special day.
Herbert Nehrlich
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