WHYGARDEN sixty-two
April's grace,
a pale daydream at noon,
and the song of a skylark
cross the river of time
to reach a soul rinsed clean by spring.
The troubles of the world
pause outside the door.
Here, words rest lightly,
and silence becomes
something warm enough to keep.
Those who are not good with words
often like to open a book
beneath the late-spring sun.
The sentences inside lift like butterflies,
leaving the woods, crossing the valley,
and flying into a spring daydream.
Flowers arrive in abundance.
The heart grows clear.
Solitude is no longer empty;
it is a place of deep companionship with oneself.
RECOMMEND · SPACES
WHYGARDEN
Time Well Wasted in Spring Light
If we never make time for the seemingly useless, how are we to spend our finite lives?
WHYGARDEN
Spring Stirs Above the Clouds
If noise is not your way of life, enjoy the quiet of answering only to yourself.
