Magazine Posts

Wayward the wind,
knifing through the trees.
It's a very strong wind,
no longer a breeze.

Down at the tree base,
there is whispering sighs,
while treetops shake
the darkest skies.

Raged the wind fiercely,
across the broad plain,
through canyons and chasms
and a downpour of rain.

Tell me, if you can,
directions to a better life.
A place of loving care,
where flowers bloom
and songbirds will sing,
Spring, Summer and Fall.
Flowers growing aside
a garden path, scented
with a sweet perfume.

Soft was the noise,
from within the park.
The Mockingbird,
the Meadowlark.

Beautiful sounds,
so crisp and dear,
musical notes
crystal clear.

So much joy,
so much fuss,
didn't know I was
on the party bus.

An island wedged
among the streams
of rushing water,
sounds of my dream.

From out the crack
of a sidewalk arose,
a beautiful plant,
a pink, pink rose.

Competing, to live again,
from rain and dirt,
the flower grew,
how much the hurt?

To bring forth,
a lovely plant,
to live again.
Don't say can't.

Along the window,
against the pane,
frost is trying
to build again.

Fog covering trees,
and on the ground,
diffusing streetlights,
muffling sound.

An icy branch,
snow on the ground,
silence is golden,
muffling the sound.

Off in the distance,
seeing trees sway,
it's still raining,
a wet soggy day.

I expect it will be,
like the day before,
wearing your rain gear
before going out the door.

Westward the wind,
from mountain to sea.
Winds of our Spring,
will soon, follow thee.

Winter scene, sodden plants,
on ground below,
wet and flat,
crushed by Winter snow.

Dissolve, they will
into the rich soil,
as Spring approaches,
when Gardners toil.