Spring
Drops of water
from my eyes
slide down my cheeks...
I turn my face to the sky.
The sun shines
upon my skin...
The wind blows
through the field Im in.
A butterfly
black, red, and gold
flutters by...
Free from Winters hold.
Spring
Drops of water
from my eyes
slide down my cheeks...
I turn my face to the sky.
The sun shines
upon my skin...
The wind blows
through the field Im in.
A butterfly
black, red, and gold
flutters by...
Free from Winters hold.
07-16-2010
07-16-2010
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.
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