The tea shon gold as silver string,
Tied in ribbon on glassy wing.
Her finger here to linger where
She found the warmth to tarry there.
The leaf had left its own.
The northing star upon the head
Descends the summit, turns to bed.
To rest and rest, as if to dream
She'll find her healing- shine again!
Though war starts within.
But through her sleep, she cannot lie.
The sun reflects, and moon is sly!
To trick the midnight to a'light
And steal from her the erring sight,
As feet begin to run.
Away! away! from resting sway!
Toward the moon and wounded day.
She'll not fear the blood-bourn beam,
To dance free 'neath moony gleam.
The light her truest friend.
She'll dance in fields of evergreen,
And pick the hyssop, ever-clean.
To her the moon doth bequeath
Upon her head a silver wreath
Of joy-light from the stars.
Yet scars of day may reach the light
And scatter moons in dreams of night.
Round and round the ribbons go,
The tea is but a chilly glow.
Your hand has left the wing.
Now you search the star-lit west,
To set upon a sunlit quest,
Where hope is full of better days
With love and joy that finally stays,
And gives you more than rest.
As I pray you will be healed,
By comforts that the moon revealed.
You'll find a day where surely you know
In picking your hyssop, you also sow.
Thus, healing is at hand.