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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.

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The heavens shimmer as billowy linen-white gossamer clouds slip away, as soft blossoms open for the sun. Mystical wings of Eden brush sunset colors; caress the rose petal; touch the lustrous cream bisque glossed onto an Irish sea; the enchantment's cyrean, sterling wings shine in an immaculate Artic gleam.. The sky becomes cool finely woven blue silk washed by the sun-lit rain. The graceful Sunlight is blessing every and any deeply rooted vegetation: A tree whose gnarled limbs and fingers hold the fallen snow, shake it off in the Late Autumn winds. She offers inedible berries that change color, that attract the squirrel, the Robin. A Fish Crow does not feed her child these berries, last Summer her baby- in their nest built into the tree- opened her beak for the laboriously hunted earth worm. Fertility. The reap of the Harvest with its toasty glow is the essence of Autumn- the crunch of an acorn underfoot, scent of these baked acorns, and chestnuts; A smoky freeze, as you breathe in, resurrecting a fire in a wood stove. The crackle of the colorful leaves blown along a street, a sidewalk; the sound as if they had sharp plastic blades that were tossed, scattered. The fallen foliole are obliged by the winds to tap dance- a sonance that quells the most anxious days, nights. Let a Winter tree extend a crooked, gnarled chilly hand to you, walk together within her wilderness, her home wherein which denuded trees are sharp stygian or onyx colors; some undoubtedly possess dove hues. The trees become lean shadows in silhouette to the sky... Let a Winter tree tell her a story about the baring of her core. Her very own Autumn colored garb is taken, by the wind, her age more exposed than when the leaves are dying. The ice cold snow blankets too heavily at times, so she loses a limb. Or her body starts to bend where her roots and her Fertility meet, in the soil.. she is rooted in the land, the land cries out, with its dusty dryness, and with the tree, she extends her arms to the sky with a plea for rain, light, like a Native American might do, might sing and dance: she dances, when the wind shakes her limbs; she sings with an early morning bird's twill, a bright chirp or two; the crinkle of her leaves, her colors... but perhaps with Winter's purity- snowfall will mill the land, hush the Forest, the wind as it pushes the trees, tjey will nod, or whisper their intimacies as the chilled wind crinkles their beetling leaves. The sunlight sifts through the clouds that seldom rain.. the elderly tree will stand plowed in barren soil; but she will be baptized, illuminated by the sky's blessings as she catches the sun as it slips across the sky. And if in the rain the tree lets a spider weave his nest within the tree's arms, the rain -drops will be little gems that cling to its web, to shine on the threaded silk- sparkles to behold in the twilight. Perhaps she will wear a crown.. Perhaps..perhaps she will stand like a statue, noble, honorable, watchfull. Among friends. Perhaps.. Perhaps.

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A Noble Tree

The heavens shimmer as billowy linen-white gossamer clouds slip away, as soft blossoms open for the sun. Mystical wings of Eden brush sunset colors; caress the rose petal; touch the lustrous cream bisque glossed onto an Irish sea; the enchantment's cyrean, sterling wings shine in an immaculate Artic gleam.. The sky becomes cool finely woven blue silk washed by the sun-lit rain. The graceful Sunlight is blessing every and any deeply rooted vegetation: A tree whose gnarled limbs and fingers hold the fallen snow, shake it off in the Late Autumn winds. She offers inedible berries that change color, that attract the squirrel, the Robin. A Fish Crow does not feed her child these berries, last Summer her baby- in their nest built into the tree- opened her beak for the laboriously hunted earth worm. Fertility. The reap of the Harvest with its toasty glow is the essence of Autumn- the crunch of an acorn underfoot, scent of these baked acorns, and chestnuts; A smoky freeze, as you breathe in, resurrecting a fire in a wood stove. The crackle of the colorful leaves blown along a street, a sidewalk; the sound as if they had sharp plastic blades that were tossed, scattered. The fallen foliole are obliged by the winds to tap dance- a sonance that quells the most anxious days, nights. Let a Winter tree extend a crooked, gnarled chilly hand to you, walk together within her wilderness, her home wherein which denuded trees are sharp stygian or onyx colors; some undoubtedly possess dove hues. The trees become lean shadows in silhouette to the sky... Let a Winter tree tell her a story about the baring of her core. Her very own Autumn colored garb is taken, by the wind, her age more exposed than when the leaves are dying. The ice cold snow blankets too heavily at times, so she loses a limb. Or her body starts to bend where her roots and her Fertility meet, in the soil.. she is rooted in the land, the land cries out, with its dusty dryness, and with the tree, she extends her arms to the sky with a plea for rain, light, like a Native American might do, might sing and dance: she dances, when the wind shakes her limbs; she sings with an early morning bird's twill, a bright chirp or two; the crinkle of her leaves, her colors... but perhaps with Winter's purity- snowfall will mill the land, hush the Forest, the wind as it pushes the trees, tjey will nod, or whisper their intimacies as the chilled wind crinkles their beetling leaves. The sunlight sifts through the clouds that seldom rain.. the elderly tree will stand plowed in barren soil; but she will be baptized, illuminated by the sky's blessings as she catches the sun as it slips across the sky. And if in the rain the tree lets a spider weave his nest within the tree's arms, the rain -drops will be little gems that cling to its web, to shine on the threaded silk- sparkles to behold in the twilight. Perhaps she will wear a crown.. Perhaps..perhaps she will stand like a statue, noble, honorable, watchfull. Among friends. Perhaps.. Perhaps.