A dandelion seed That’s what you are Neither here nor there Gliding gleefully Flying ever so high The current as your companion
Floating on the sea of life I see you there and I’m smiling As the sun shines upon your face Listening to the birdsong of tranquility Holding steadfast to the feather of peace As the waves of contentment wash over your beautiful soul
Happiness abides within you Carrying you to the ends of the earth A heart so full of blissful wonder A head so unaware of the passing of time All the things that really matter You’ve found them Now hold on tight
It was a warm-weathered day as delicate petals pelted and pranced across the pages of an open book. Occasionally, a brisk breeze would materialize, causing a sudden soirée of flowers to take flight, ultimately embellishing the barren pages, which seemed particularly peckish for a poetic phrase. It was as if the tree were purposely parading posies in an attempt to gain the attention of the writer below. But the wordsmith was lost in a world of rhythmic ruminations, never giving the tree a single thought, focusing solely on the stark landscape of her inconsolable book. Had the writer even an inkling about what the tree desired to divulge, she may have taken a moment to meditate, soaking in the silent secrets of her friend above. But as this wasn’t the case, the writer continued to stare blankly, utterly unaware of the many mysteries that were longing to be revealed.
Sometimes I feel so small out here underneath it all The sky is so vast every mountain so high I’m a mere speck of dust to every passer-by Insignificant by design feeling ready to resign Like a splash from a waterfall an unnoticed drip splattered upon grandeur preparing to slip Yet I wonder if I could be a friend to the mighty sea As insufficient as I am I’ve got so many dreams under the weight of them all I’m nearly bursting at the seams Ambitions overflowing completely ready to get going But the path is never straight and the journey can be so long can’t always get someplace unless you’re really strong A new age a new me I wonder who I’ll be I’ve searched my whole life through a forest of tall trees looking for all the answers as if they’re there on the breeze Just more questions forever found scattered lifelessly on the ground Wonder if I’ll ever find my way I’m over halfway through This is just how life is when you’re turning fifty-two
All the days began and ended with crimson, whether flowing with an abundance of tangerine or saturated with the soft hues of saffron, depended mostly on the seasonal viridian. The afternoon sky never changed though, always a pale azure. Why couldn’t it ever be a shade of purple like amethyst?
She’d always delighted in things of amethyst, and as all days began and ended with crimson, she accepted the fact that she’d always face the effects of azure. In the lull of the day, she’d close her eyes and see lazy shades of tangerine, but opening them once more; she was snapped back to the views of viridian. Sometimes the sweeping countryside was painted yellow like saffron;
harvest time was the beginning of the days of saffron. She wondered why the meadows couldn’t ever be lilac like amethyst; for now, they were a lovely shade of viridian. And as the day moved along, there came creases of crimson with its various placid shades of tangerine. The blue from earlier didn’t seem so bad now; what was wrong with azure?
Yet deep in her heart, she knew the answer to azure, and as her hair glowed in the last light of saffron, and as the day passed over with a faint tinge of tangerine, she laid back and dreamt of a world colored in amethyst. The following day, she was awoken by streams of crimson, and out in the far-off distance, shown waves of vivacious viridian.
But as the winds blew east to west, casting shadows on its viridian, the sky began to blacken, turning a darker shade of azure. Then the poppies swayed, brilliant in their beds of crimson, each little face marked boldly with a fleck of saffron. And against the foreboding sky, still absent of amethyst, a bolt of lightning struck in trembling tangerine.
The whole landscape then unfurled, transforming to tangerine. Black plumes of smoke choked out all the velvety viridian, and in the wake of disaster came a sudden array of amethyst. Fiery fields full of bloodthirsty life blotted out any hope for azure and wilted away the soon-to-be season of saffron. All was cursed now in the vilest of crimson.
She stood and prayed for the sky to regain conscious efforts of azure. Sadly, the waves of fortitude would not yield its season of saffron. Patchworks of hopefulness died that day in a different kind of crimson.
Her Writing Haven 