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.
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Author:
benevolentbluebabe (
Offline) - Published: July 19th, 2020 00:02
- Category: Nature
- Views: 21
- Users favorite of this poem: Lutalican
Offline)
Comments2
An elegant piece - a joy to read.
ooh hit us with a second verse please
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