A.D.

I'll be frank; she isn't the air I breathe.
She isn't the sun which lights my way.
She isn't a garden of fragrant roses,
Nor is she the sound of crashing waves.
She is neither enormous nor overwhelming.
She is, instead, the odor of evergreens
High in the mountains, the glint of the
Sun through a diamond ring, the sound
Of a songbird on spring's first warm
Morning. Rare and exquisite, and also
Ephemeral, she is that sort of thing.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 54 times
Written on 2015-12-31 at 14:49

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