Warm wandering soul Whispering her secrets, will, And thoughts to the wind
Her reflection cast The beauty of an old soul Long travelled and wise
Gently brushing by Her scorched skin, the winter breeze Whispers all over Her. Sore flesh. Softly Lullabies her pain away. Promises relief.
A light breeze softly Passes, lifts strands of her hair Whispers in her ears
He was working the clay, soaking it in water, making it soft. Preparing the base he would filter by hand. He knew his project would take months, but he had to do it. Surprise her. Win her father over.
She was standing alone Thinking about her boy at home Assembling in her mind A list of groceries She could not afford to buy.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – Emily Dickinson
Step into the unknown, Out Of habit, Stretch and Walk, free of your own Will, out into the wide world
He had turned his father’s labor into art. The beauty of his carvings gathered fame. People travelled from all over the country to see him at work. There was grace and beauty in all his gestures. His moves were so soft and swift, it looked as if he were dancing.
She is opening doors. A few adventurers are walking in. She is sending faulty ropes for them to grasp and mend, The only way to climb up to her stair-less high porch.
During winter, we often feel cold in our bodies and in our hearts. Overwhelmed and exhausted by our environment.
Keys turned in the lock. He walked in, and shed his coat and jacket in the lobby. Then he eyed his flat. Soulless, nude space, open lines, cold, empty walls, uplifted only by the view, and the grey light filtering through the high windows.