Roots beneath dark soilsprout and rise to meet the sun;yearnings come to light.What was meant to befinds voice and form to existand claim its birthright.
Feathers in weatherpaint themselves upon the trees;life imitates art.They fly in the sky,graceful, gliding where they please;art imitates life.
Warm eyes follow me.Your love pours into my soul.You fill me with light.
Trees have lost their gloves,
the stream’s almost silent,
and you turn away.
come visit me at my other blog.
The Water Witch’s Daughter
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