Fingertips drumming beats on glass
perfuming the air like the lingering breath
of a southern June.
Painting the leaves and moss,
a palette stirred by watery tides.
Streaking down cheek and lingering
in each isolated strand,
eavesdropping on lashes,
reminders of our own composition,
chilling us to the bone.
The lullaby of nature’s rhythm section
a symphony so sweet,
at least briefly
that a harmony could be reached
rather than desecration.
Soft cascades of lazy kisses,
wet on breast and brow,
gently flows and fills this life’s long river,
winding ’round and down.
+ Katie +
It is no longer NaPoWriMo, but I have decided that I will continue to make poetry a regular feature on my blog. My desired goal will be one a week, most likely to be added every Saturday, from now on. A theological post will be coming soon, but for now, there’s this.
The trees in winter are all dead,
it is said,
But life lands on branches
and takes to the skies;
It is not sanctioned to bloom just once
and then die.
Feathers have more freedom than leaves or seasons,
and certainly more than have you
or have I.
‘Tis better to be a leaf on a wing;
to open your heart
and your throat,
to call out and sing,
The glory of living for each
and every day,
for you never know when the leaves will turn
and fall away.
+ K +