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 evergreen. 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.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
categories. |