Why I Tilled My Thoughts

I tilled my thoughts-- near a sparkly stream, where a rainbow bridge linking the past, the present, and the future of an exquisite aroma of my morn sighs, ‘til it dawned upon a pink butterfly, like the great orb. Ahh, countless times I tilled my thoughts, while li’l robin chirping in the young evergreen, which out-shadowed grandpa’s oak tree, where crimson love was once etched on it. I did the etching. And, the mystic spring sipped the blood that oozed from her scented body, waking up the wild tares eagerly casting their sleek shadows to attract warblers, to play with them. Hmm, the thoughts, cultivated near a sparkly stream, like blooms written in a poem-- can connect not only poets.