I know, by winter
they will be gone.
And still I tend to them.
Amid the vast fields of life,
surely, there must be a place
where this weary soul can breathe.
Somewhere, beyond
the inscrutable blue.
Beyond the unbearable heat
of all the precious dust. Maybe it's more
than just a mirage,
this realm of hope.
Through the morning mist,
I see invisible gardens,
swaying to the quiet,
untamable song of love.
Maybe it's there,
amongst that sunlit scattering
of unplucked daisies,
that I should plant myself.
* originally posted on Twitter (X) @EllenKrupich
Flowers
© Copyright: Елена Боголюбова, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126092003514
Свидетельство о публикации №126092003514
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