I weave my dreams
Of fragile things,
Sleeves of mist,
Drowning leaves,
Beads on webs,
Sun-dappled sips
Of Sky—
And moss, breathing green
Newness into the soil,
Into my soul.
YOU ARE READING
Prickmedainty Poetry
PoetryFor all those who broke their glass slipper and still search for stars in the shards.
