With winds gracefully bending,
the tops of trees.
To bow to the heavens,
as low as they please.
As dark, rich soil,
streaches its arms.
From coast to coast,
and bushel to barn.
The clouds go searching,
for something new.
Weeping for sorrow,
and healing; renewed.
Rivers and streams,
run away from home.
traversing rocks and seas,
and going to rome.
The roses and tulips,
are singing of grace.
The winds are carving,
a stony face.
and as we watch,
with heads held high.
that lonely wolf,
gies a desperate cry.
and natures answers,
with birds of song.
and melodious winds,
that do no wrong.
~
~Joe~
~
Adding your comment: