A passing doe, 

the soaring crow,

fawns hid in the meadow's low. 

Tender, graceful,

fleeting as the fallen snow.

How strange it is, this world of ours

when commonplace becomes these beasts,

their elegance looked-over,

and wonderment has ceased.

  • Author: benevolentbluebabe (Offline Offline)
  • Published: July 19th, 2020 00:02
  • Category: Nature
  • Views:
  • User favorite of this poem: Lutalican.


  • Michael Edwards

    An elegant piece - a joy to read.

  • GON

    ooh hit us with a second verse please

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