Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
A poem about bald cypress: My knees My knees breathe above the muck. My arms shelter placid waters, that thin emerald sheen of life protecting hidden depths below. My needles fall come October, blanket all with rust and gold. An autumn quilt of warmth and color. I am old. This swamp is older. © Copyright 2024 Kåre Enga (13.september.2024) 115.162 |