Keep senses open full round
cos neverno wherenwhen
glory will carve its lustrous wound.

Oft from the oddest angle,
scampring quiet as a water strider,
comes the stealthy beauty bloom.

Blown in the tall grass of late summer,
an icicle is farthest from the mind,
tho diadem it traces, ray by ray.

Keep the gift and use it often,
citric grassy drops of odor
sprinkled across the jagged day.