Lost book

When I look at the ground,
At early November soil
With small grass
That is still green
With drops onto them
Like tiny sparks of glass,
Land that keep seeds
I want to lie there
To absorb moist
From cold autumn fog
To breathe
Im yearning to bloom
Like this soil next spring
Transforming the gloom
Releasing what was kept within

When i look at the leaves
Through a miracle of its silhouettes
That are still somehow on trees
Into the deepness and distance of sky
And then -  under my feet on my path
Where the darkness of leaves lie
I recall a book that I lost years ago
That I've never read aftermath
Strange longing I undergo
I used to read every one from first page to last
And about this particular one I'll never know
The colour of leaves reminds of a cover
It was poetry of Robert Frost
That  found on a flea market to get over
My breakings heart. In the loss
I feel a sense of celestial presence
But also close to the earth it is
The dimension of words unread- nonexistent once
Will be reborn in new lines
5.11.21