Something within the heart loves little things
And holds them ever while great moments pass;
The mind that shuns the pageantry of kings
Will long remember how a blade of grass
Held, in a drop of dew, the first faint glow
Of daybreak in an April long since ended,
Or how some casual footprint in the snow
Glazed in a silent wood as night descended.
When memory brings you back it does not speak
Of your great love in all its timeless bloom,
But rather of one brief moment when a bleak
Finger of sunlight found us in a room
One wintry dusk, and touched you as you lay
Musing on love, with no word left to say.