Which drifts through
The pine trees finer branches
There is a breeze
Which wills the palms leaves
To waft, as a cooling fan
There is a breeze
Which rustles the fine strings
Of ceremonial brocade
Available on Kindle |
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Available on Kindle |
Available on Kindle |
Available on Kindle |
Available on Kindle |