yadamonje

It came in tasteful gestures on a shouldered backward breeze. Ghosts of smiling children rocked the rusting set of swings. Plucking yellow daisy tops, in streams the stones did sink. While birds of cream and navy rode above a gust of pink. The sun rays pressed their fingers through the isle of cobwebbed clouds. Spitting shafts of sunlight lift the humming branches' sound. The sipping of the soil weaned as dewdrops fell in threes. In this brutte of cradled roots I lay beneath the trees.