Monet

 

Dark moods in which I brood

ride the leaves of poetry books

marking the seasons of my life

 

Springs words, still fresh to the world

capture wondrous blooms awakening

boundless soul with wings unfurled

 

Summers fire, filled with hearts desire

loves caress given freely without cost

travel from where I am to were you are

 

Autumn’s palette, painting visions of Monet

soft natures breath whispers life to me

by quiet brooks with pen in hand

 

Winter’s crystals fall, and through it all

poems on leaves pressed lovingly

between the pages of my life

 (Stoic) 

 

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