#8 of Esoterica
A short poem about birds.
In turn to drift and dive, the Swift flies high, alive. Flutter and fall from skies cluttered with gull, adrift the feathers fall deprived. A current shall wash the foul from fowl amid the Sun's beaming guise. Aloft each wing, they chirp and sing to which each bird fondly replies.
Days beyond the grasp of obligatory assignments when I can escape the call to work in almost solitary confinement. A frosted office with luminous screens as portals to the outer world that dangles just out of reach; in frustration my lips are furled. A...
When the leaves begin to fall and the trees begin to turn, a once emerald forest leans scarlet for next season's yearn. Summer yawns his heated breath and looks across an open swath where Autumn tips her hat and greets her kin with a gentle waft....
Winter's eyes grew heavy as she kept on her way. The day in and day out march up the stony mountain path has been long, but necessary for reaching the next place where she could lay her head down. "Just a few more miles and then I can finally rest for...