Weaving tapestry
With million hands clutched
Clasped in a work of art
With no needlework
With no mold
Like oaks with no thorns
Like ashes with no gashes
Weaving tapestry
Like wavy patterns ebbs and flows
Through harlequin memories of home
Through the scent of the petrichor
Blended through the scent of the pine
Hovering nearby the turquoise river
Waiting on those stances of time
So undying
So pristine
Like a white dove feathers
Through the eyes of a stranger sway
Like Words turn into a duvet
Without no seams
For a first meeting
For one conversation
Tinctures of the earth and the sky
Like succulent dreams of blue streams
Flowing in the the surface of our veins
Weaving some blossoming heaving oak trees
In shapes of fractals
Amid the nightly sphere abiding
Far into the wuthering heights
Of yonder sublime dome celestial
A masterpiece by the name of
Love in the stratosphere
