a young girl longs for the flames of her soul
burning and yearning to touch
Missed the long time
Felt the wind blow
Living and saddle campgrounds
Different from the rest
for casting right ..
A lake simple enough for my heart.
The woven way a story is told
A calm before the storm
Or a bright light on a Warm walk, little is known to rush forlorn
Evening breaks the width of a stick
But a flow of a shirt or hem or line
Brings forth the underwing of a blossoms site, more than what the iris can hold
But little to what the eye can see
Nuisance in delight and for longing in the pattern of the way it falls or rests in the same instance as the other
Never too floral or too faint
But in the right substance more than you know
Ever bending just in time to show what you care for and what you don’t fully see
Whatever is most felt by the hand or the cheek and less than what a mind can read
For the feeling of it is what matters
, to the moss on the ground
When you're lying down to try to rest
When the world seems the same but strange
It goes in circles for a time
When the most had waves of stress
Less of fire or fury
Winds of the crickets resound the laughter but quiet the heart to a way of life that feels grander than the normal strife
Quickly we go over to a different side
Quietly we feel the same
Lively we stand for strength and
Lonely we rest for ease.
I see them topped off
Around the ring
A group of them
Just sitting in
The magic of the mushroom thing.
it looks as though a new home will be home
as a dandelion changes so does the seasons
leaving my families abode
may have the real reason
to stay in a place that is welcome.
Home searching poetry.
hope grows flowers
like summer grows feelings
here unto most.
remembrance lies in the evening