Spring
Drops of water
from my eyes
slide down my cheeks...
I turn my face to the sky.
The sun shines
upon my skin...
The wind blows
through the field Im in.
A butterfly
black, red, and gold
flutters by...
Free from Winters hold.
Spring
Drops of water
from my eyes
slide down my cheeks...
I turn my face to the sky.
The sun shines
upon my skin...
The wind blows
through the field Im in.
A butterfly
black, red, and gold
flutters by...
Free from Winters hold.
07-16-2010
07-16-2010
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.
T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.