The whispers from the psyche of a flower
Tell petals they must kiss the close of day,
And pale veined fingers mark the muted hour,
When night will steal this day's bold heart away.
The clouds, like children, run; their colors melt
In streaks of rose to quake the coldest heart.
The wet of night on every leaf is felt,
It glistens on the harvest in the cart.
It's time to run the cows into the barn,
And lay fresh hay, near hooved feet, for a bed.
It's time to mend that shirt, there's socks to darn,
Or I may watch the fire dance instead.
These hours so delicious in their ease,
No more but my own heart I need appease.
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Comments: 17
EXCELLENT!
I hope to sample all of your posts and comment soon.
A Length of Tattered Curtain
In streaks of rose to quake the coldest heart.
came back to read this again, Patricia - beautiful! Salud