The young gray cloud's above the field;
it's running with the playing wind;
a mistle falls with scents revealed,
of ferns that mix with sage and mint.
The field around, transmits my love;
rescinds my soul's wrought iron bars,
the southern breeze unfurls to rove;
its flight shall reach the distant stars.
My friends transcribed inside time's log
are clouds elusive and rain's dew;
about resides Autumnal fog,
that spreads for me and just a few.
© G. V., 07-22-2012, All Rights Reserved