Wisps of string flowing
with the wind. Ever growing
Down. And up.
They reach to cup
the sun in their hands. Squint
at their reflection
in dew drops. A tiny
dot. A large field
of brothers, sisters.

They move as one
ripple. Swaying with purpose
of nothing but no purpose.
The stalks sail
in silent serenity.
Only a whisper of a veil
the sound. The swish
of blades amiss
in honed edge.

Pale as sunrise
deep as dusk.
Colors all the same
but light inside differently eyed
in the muted vibrance.
Gentle in all actions
you cannot be maimed by these
who camp in bliss.