Brambles and lace
Even as mist lay still asleep on low shadowy ground, dawn smiled coyly between glistening oak leaves with promise of sunshine. The farmer was in his meadow readying new hay for the growling machine to come and place each stem and blade in orderly rows. From the thicket, a Whip-poor-will offered its last melancholy voice to the faltering darkness even as a song sparrow trilled good morning from brambles adorning the rusty fence. The scent of fresh hay filled my part of the vale with pungent sweetness, softly singing of many such days in a bygone heaven. When at last the orange sun paused for a moment to peer past Buffalo's hump, westerly clouds were already marching to temper its glory, and now the threat of rain glowers over the valley of the Tennessee. It is June and the universe at Nature's edge still summons my heart; always lovely, always fascinating, always fragile, yet forever mine.
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Have a good Saturday ...
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4 comments:
Beautiful words. xo
A man who writes so lovely must be an amazing attentive lover.
Thanks, Jola.
A melancholy morning :-)
Thanks, Tammy.
That is one helluva loaded statement.
In my mind, I am absolutely the greatest, but when push comes to shove, I am probably average at best. :-)
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