Blue smoke,
Rising from the rough circle of trees,
Careening towards the birds clearing,
And you.

Green Grass,
Shards of Emerald Glass,
Prickling my bare feet,
Finger tips brushing,
Blooming roses,
With petals soft,

Exhausted,
My knees meet with the thick bed of,
Shattered glass,
Falling at the foot of The Dove's,
Lonely pedestal.

Silver ferns grow in a meadow of furiously bright flora,
Cosmos,
Freesia,
Roses of red and white,
Grow freely,
Wild below the pristine marble pedestal sitting center the clearing,
Within,
A,
Delicately wound cage calmly sits a equally small bird,
Breathing in the sweetness of the meadow,
Fluttering peacefully,
Their talons rest atop the door,
Of,
Its Gilded Cage.