They fold and unfold, shimmer in the mist
as waste becomes a splendid, breathing being:
veiled decay alive with purity
that lifts thick fog and summons hopeful light.
This Sunday after a week gone dark with news
of horrors here and elsewhere, I abstain
from touching even one – too great a risk,
and who am I to scatter such perfection?
I stand and watch until the grass is dry,
content with their contentment to exist
atop a brown and decomposing hill
transformed by their white serenity.