Hope flies on dragonfly wings.
Thin glitter
whisked with the breeze.
Such a tiny, delicate song.
The trumpeting of the heart is so very loud.
Garish.
Grating the soft meadows
with harsh hot and cold.
Together, the soft and the weak,
the proud and the overpowering,
can make such a melody
to soothe
the sadness
that lingers in our
tired,
tired hands.
C. Rose Morris
(Was intending to send this to Dr. M. I think he would have liked it.) Enjoy. - c
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