A Plea to Bragi

O Bearded Bard, Blindr’s Son,
I wanted to write a poem about the majesty of Midgard,
of silvered spears of starlight gleaming
off towering turrets and tumbling torrents;
of hollow hills and hidden lakes
whose harrowing beauty makes the heart ache.
But my craft has failed me.
So instead, I write about small things,
of living breath meeting frozen air in numinous clouds,
of the deepest green dressed in suits of dreaming ice,
of the shock of blood red berries against winter drabness.
Might it be enough?