The air is thick with the smell of rain. The night hovers as a blanket over a vast meadow. The glow of the moon walks across the sky toward secret places. I wonder where it sits among the waking hours just before first light.
I wonder where God places the next day's paintings.
How many times I have wished to become a sleeping flower in my grandmother's garden. I lost count long ago.
She was as gentle as the summer rain. Her tulips always had a smile for her... as she had for me.
She was akin to nature, it seemed....
5 comments:
Poetry need not necessarily in the form of verse. Your words are pure poetry, Sandy. I think any form of writing which is sensitive, reflective and leads the reader to a sublime level is poetry. Thats what your words do.
I can read the words you write and feel like I am amongst...your words are like beautiful music and I will continue always to read them
You bless me somehow in every of your poems I have read...even the funny ones..they bless with laughter ( which I think we all need) Keep up the good work..don't ever quit..you are so talented.. Ashyea
Your abiding love for your grandmother is obvious from the beauty of this poem. If everyone reacts to this as I do, there will be a lot of happy memories being resurrected.
STP
I had two wonderful grandmothers. They had their own personalities. I loved them both dearly. Thank you STP
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