Have a great 4th ❤️
Let the sunshine caress you,
as if it were a lover.
Live today like it is everything
Don’t be afraid to let the wind
Feel the tenderness of the garden.
Take in the color, scent,
and aliveness of the flowers blossoming.
Let the sky’s blue direct you.
between what’s your’s and what’s their’s Feel the richness of the grass
under your feet.
Let nature be the cure that relieves you. If only for a moment, be well
and another song by The Maine Yep, still om that music kick 🙂
My handsome and wonderful friend Alex’s beautiful poem on nature. A lovely read. Check it out. x
The cold, transparent, frozen, hand of Winter
with its heavy, shivering, fingers
and sharp yet fragile claws,
touches all it can see,
covering three season’s worth of nature
with its web of glass,
and the haunting words it uses
confirms its work has been done.
Spring’s hand gently yet forcefully
pushes Winter aside
with its leafy green, smooth, steady fingers,
and removes all of Winter’s trace
with a few brief touches
that have been rehearsed for so long,
concluding with a lovely melody
that it sings quietly with perfect rhythm.
Summer’s decorated, dextrous, talented hand
waving goodbye to spring,
while at the same time
summoning the rest of the animal kingdom,
who are attracted,
by the infinite shades of yellow,
and the hypnotically enchanting
wordless song sung with such happiness.
Autumn’s hand gives a quiet signal
to the ever rejoicing Summer,
before the ever different creatures
View original post 21 more words
They gave each other the sweetness of apples,
immeasurable by hand.
An orchard assembled by
loyalty and determination,
where two horizons met
bound by soul constellations
An intimacy that went beyond a
bed of grass and fleeting endorphin
But no matter how bountiful the gathering,
we sometimes become too accustomed
to the beauty of the return.
We forget to take time
to savor what we hold dear,
clinging too long to
memories of past harvesting
Or we become consumed with
the yields of new fruit.
No time to fight or even mourn
for bruised apples
left to oxidize in the
Neglect takes root, hurt unbridles
And careless words become an
apron full of briars.
A spider lodged in the hem.
The orchard once ablaze and alive sheds
it’s golden mass becoming nothing
more than a misbegotten shadow,
a crop of blue scars, an artifact