Posted on April 17, 2017
Tiny dots build the naive shape,
Of a blonde innocent lover.
On the doorstep of a lonely
wooden shelter, a teen plover.
As traces of clouds smoothly stain,
Pastel hues dye the morning sky.
The fading swing by the willow,
Frame the pure landscape on her eyes
While the bees rest in pigments of
lavender, young birds stretch their wings.
Scrubs masking a rabbit’s burrow;
Through the branches the sunlight springs
Fresh green meadows start to blossom;
Balancing leaves shadow her roots,
Cold feet on the watercolour;
Near the missing lake, a white goose
From her pale hands the fresco grows;
Behind the mountains the wind blows