Grateful grew
a waterfall-
when it seemed
dry
the stream had fallen into
a lull
a bye and by chance
a babbling brook broke the silence,
the banks exhaled
a warm chill
mist its forests
and swelling by providing
encurrentment
to every atomic bead
aligned inside sealed springs
to thaw and draw
themselves
forth
by means of appreciation
to rise in a flood
of movement
for no means other than
most simply Being
drawn willfully to the sea
of Eternity,
a wash in tranquility
when the thirst
for refreshment
all but evaporated.
This atmosphere
was everything we needed
to thrive.
Painting by Marcus Larson c. 1856 in [Public domain].
“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label level. Show all posts
Showing posts with label level. Show all posts
Sunday, April 7, 2019
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Half-dozen Mud cakes
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