Poetry (words)

Of nature.

There is no fate here, just a memory on a wave, a moment in time. Destiny a spiderweb, a looking glass of light. A slow trickle becomes a stream, a reflection of all it sustains. Is this study or becoming? Would I swap these limbs for the iridescent wings of a dragonfly to capture light like faith in the cathedral glass.

Beauty is defined here, on a sensual breeze that shines in whispers crossing time, a slowing of speed to equal the heart. Poems are thoughts before they are words, flowing to fruition like the uncurling fern or the fledglings feathers in that first tentative flight. Although the tools that place them here are the implements of man, they are born of nature.

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