In my hands they feel light and I hardly feel their fading petals . . .
In the harsh light and heat of mid-morning, they dance wearily.
As I listen to a child's soft recitation of poetry nearby.
The soft young voice like a chanting lullaby.
The swirling flowers like a soft melody.
There is something poignant
in the magical twirl of things.
". . . you are a friend that hugs me like a pillow in the dark . . ."
the child recited her poetry with eyes closed.
And you are magic that tugs at my weary heart.
I whispered in the wind.
I held out my hand to the child
as we weave our way
in the pattern of our magical encounter . . .
My Red Bird of Paradise flowers (with yellow)
for two very special Lisas of:
The Creative Exchange: