O, Sing me a song
of sunsets and slivers of moon
and of rivers that wind down from hills
in rills and in trickles
from seams in old rocks
to splash and to tickle
tree-toes in their socks
of moss and brown loam
and roam, silent and broad
past towns and downs
and down through valleys
at last to the sea
to join in the tide
and ride
in the silver wake
of a sliver of moon
-- Mark Weaver, Copyright 2004
