run to the meadow, just beyond the
edges of all you see, hidden among the
silent cacophony that quiets both
time and space.
flora and fauna await, against an
open canopy of sky, air that breathes
restoration to the soul.
textures of grace among the dancing trees, unaware of their joyous
hum, the persistent hope of the
water across rocks whispers the words to a song not yet heard, the
embers of love melt
afternoon into evening, the
restful breeze of the meadow carry away the
years, the fears, the tears of what came before.
solitude awakens the internal space, the evening
overture of crickets and creatures call forth the
unseen shadows of courage and strength, the flickering
light necessary to return home.
about the writer.
“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw)