Walking old paths
each morning, not writing
I re-find an old way of seeing,
momentarily;
not thinking.
The ferns, like green plumes;
still-life living.
Reddish-brown at the ends,
some of them;
slow-pouring their colour into the
soft moist ground.
A low cedar bough above;
each tiny evergreen leaf
like a miniature fern;
nature repeating itself.
.
I miss his solidity
His slow-changing nature;
where is he now…
I put my ear
to the bark of tree;
but I can’t hear his heartbeat.
“Come back, or just tell me, kindly”
but he is silent
wherever he is
wandering.
.
.
.
brilliant.
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Nature is indeed brilliant. Thanks for the comment David 💛
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You and I have taken this same walk little sister. My ear pressed to the bark of his tree, listening to his silence.
Beautifully expressed. Sending you many hugs and lots of love ❤️❤️🤗🤗
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Thanks for the love, lovely lady. Every path is different, every tree is different… even if they appear to be similar at first glance. :)) Thanks for sharing your kind heart. Keep up the amazing art 🙏💗🤗
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❤🧡💛💚💙😍
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Wow! Super impressive. Love how you weaved in nature effortlessly. Cool part: “I put my ear / to the bark of tree; / but I can’t hear his heartbeat. “
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Benjamin! Feeling blessed to see you here, friend. Thanks so much for the detailed and thoughtful encouragement. 😚🙏✨🌿
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You’re welcome. Always nice to read what you’re doing!
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❤❤❤❤
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