It’s not a beautiful day.The skies are smeared greyAnd the sun remains hidden.Alone, I sit, when thoughtsOf you rush into me, unbidden.
I sat on the hand crafted wooden bench in the quiet, deserted park watching the boughs of the magnificent weeping willow trees sway in…
B eautiful interpretations
R endering of her life
Do you ever hang in place? A languid breath squeezed from my pores,Like the air in a late-August day, Not yet captured by yours.