The Wind Blows
. . . and the wind blows
pushing the blue bird
higher farther
past raindrops and darkened clouds
into a valley of golden sun where
rainbows dance in her dulcet eyes
where worries wander away
and new days are hatched
. . . and the wind whips
clearing out the old
preparing for the new
mixing the earthen mulch
from a fallen past into
an unmade bed of fertile ground
A morning mist fills the meadow
dew drips off the first spring daisy
beauty overcomes me
I hold her ever gently in my arms
watching
. . . as the wind blows
Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2016
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