Epithalamium: Sixteenth Hour

The pastured cattle stomp for stanchions; sheep
At hilly intervals are clouds in green
Euphoria; both endure the tired creep
Of shadows that thread the remnant sunshine.
The moments mount a shadow’s blade of grass
And leave a bent sadness
Beneath every hoof print. The steps away
From night begin their count. The drowsy guests drink
As they have all day. The near heavens thank
Their host, this perfect day,
With early starlight from one that loves to make
Her presence known as harbinger of night.
The moon and Milky Way corral their light
In every window. Farmer’s hoe and rake
Can take their rest at last. The harvests wait
For plow to cultivate
Tomorrow’s fruit – what will come just to this –
That nature’s fertile soil turns by the key of grace.