In The Grove

Beneath the boughs of the brandished beauty of resplendent redwoods,

Radiance of retrospective rays rip through to the rippling of a brook bristling with wisdom and wonder in its bubbles.

Wild symmetry in selected spots of seeds sown centuries ago; this circle is sacred.

My muse, fair and pale, hair dark and eyes of leafs, in the center sings in the silence of my soul.

“Oh, my lover, my joy untold! Welcome home! What story for me shall you unfold? The pages are bare! Show me your strokes, fine and with flare! I will embrace your art with all of my heart!”

Her last note lingers in the shade and my hand moves with purpose made. So smitten, I find that her story has already been written.

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