Gray sky in Woodstock;
Clouds reach down and kiss the earth;
A peaceful mornimg.
Collette's head scratching;
She knows that it feels better;
Every little bit.
Still they're hanging on
These small fluffy milkweed puffs;
Why don't they let go?
This murmuring water
Says nothing at all, really;
Just keeps whisperiung.
Last rhododednron;
Their season was in the Spring;
Why are they still here?
Carpet of dead leaves
Surrounded by the always green ferns;
Each in their own world.
No comments:
Post a Comment