The trees are not red and yellow
They are burning embers and tarnished gold,
whispering fire on lonely mountainsides.
The streams are not babbling
They are clear memories and laughter,
smoothing rough edges beneath the surface.
The path is not lost amongst the trees
It is simply beckoning my name, waiting to be found once more,
as fallen leaves forever shift in the autumn breeze.
Like the world around me, I am content—but unaware that I am searching for a better way to describe myself.
YOU ARE READING
seasons of my heart
PoetryLove: infinitely personal and consistently imperfect. Life: like the seasons, continues to move on; never stopping and always changing. Hope: the persistent light in the dark.
