glinting through billows
of a ripe field of wheat
like the dance of the poppies' wings
in the soft hands of the wind
from a sweet childhood memory
like the song of the lark
immersed in cerulean height
filling an unending summer day
like the silvern river of certainty
flowing with evening quietude
to the outskirts of dusk.
(for D.)
2 comments:
there is substance in this, yet weightlessness. blessed to know the magic of your words~
Thank you ... and likewise 🤗
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