I wonder if you know,
there are few things as beautifully blinding
as sparkling diamonds on a sheet of snow
—pristine white snow—
when early in the morning after a storm,
the sun arises, spills its light—spellbinding!
There are few things…
and one of them I know.
I wake up to this wonder every morning.
With warmth, it fills me, and iridescent glow.
My feelings grow
as you look up, your hair spilled over pillows,
and smile so brilliantly, full of love and joy!
I wonder if you know,
you’re more beautiful than snow.

What beauty is this
where the cool crisp air
hugs the warmth of the sun;
and where the hands of a tree
in a quieted silence
reach out to me
What beauty is this
where the sun's rays
tickle my face
and a gentle breeze
like an unexpected tease
reminds me of everything you
What beauty is this
where the pitter patter of rain
leaves the unmistakable stain
of my memories
and like the hands of the trees
beneath the warmth of the sun
where magical dreams
are miraculously spun,
all that I feel are your arms
Like a blanket of comfort,
nature's mystical allure
wraps around me
in the quieted silence of peace
What beauty is this

~ Priya 🕉,  2/6/22

Cup rim contains

Flat tea-


Through window pane
Moon shaft

Reflects and

Dapples the ceiling
Matt and flat.


How shimmering light
From afar

Illumines the leaf
Plucked from

Mountain shrub
Far away

To refresh the

Flat wet
Emptiness

Of mind

I yearn only to be
understood,
each action
decipherable,
each sentiment
understandable.
I do not yearn to be loved,
just understood.

The drops of mist from crashing falls
descend upon my face
and scatter in the whirling breeze
to dance in playful grace.

soft suns sail across,

a red star-crossed sky,

and some night,

i won't know what it is.

souls shine, no less beautiful,

then those lights lost in their height,

came to me in tiny dreams,

the kind that try to let me breathe,

when the morning comes,

i wont know what they mean.

i could love a million things,

but not a single one would love me.

that's the maker's mark,

it's meant to be,

if only sober men could repeat the sea.

but surely that man isnt me.