I saw an oak leaf on the ground. Its perfect shape was so unique and lovely. It made me happy.
I saw another oak leaf. It still had raindrops on it from the night before. It was beautiful.
Oak Leaves
Tag Archives: poetry
The Magic of Dusk
The American robin is the town crier. He announces the descending of the night.
He sings incessantly, sincerely, melodiously. He sings from the bottom of his heart.
All of a sudden, the meandering grey clouds slowly reveal the bright fingernail of a moon suspended over the darkened treetops.
