Deep in the woods
down a narrow path
she waits for me..
(Her door is always open..)
even in daylight
shadows fall
on her wooden floors
seeming to dance....
a faint smell
of honeysuckle
and wild rose
enter through windows
on a gentle breeze.
she knows me well.
I visit her often.
I drink cold water
from her spring
in grandmas tea cups...
i light candles
and burn wood
in her fireplace...
As poems flow
from her old walls
like conversation..
one must listen close
to hear
memories dancing...
picture and poem by connie vanmatre
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment