A wilted flower withered and weathered A single blow could push it like a feather. No water to quench it's dying thirst. alone in a barren field. The sun is gone. Darkness and frivolous chill constantly nip the air. Doomed to succumb shall it. Years go by. And yet that flowers tiny roots hold on by a thread. To see the changing world. Decades go by, only to feel lonesome and hopeless. Still the flower must hold on. Each year the roots break and die. But this year something anew. A sprout. A glimmer of sun and warmth. The roots take place once more healing within. As the sprout grows so do other things, the field is no longer barren. The Sun shines more brightly. At last another flower grows and blooms beside the withered one. And it is the same of the same kind. They dance in the wind a language all their own just to intertwine their roots and hold firm. They are still young, but they are intertwined, and found the perfect match to bring them back to life. They hold strong even on the darkest days. They hold tight.

I cant live without you, your smile Though youre tempermental as a child Prone to giving me a cold shoulder And to keeping count as I get older Laughing at me till my cheeks burn Disappearing at every turn of the earth And today you feel 93 million miles away. I know you think you can do better You say Im only using you to change the weather But thats not true. Sure there are plenty of stars And Ill admit I like Venus and Mars a bit But they’re far away And you’re near. But its so frustrating that you cant you deal with your emotions Why are you running off to Artic oceans, melting glaciers And stranding the polar bears? You keep leaving me unexpectedly In the middle of spring. You thought I didnt care But you dont know how I cried Every time you’d hide your love affairs Behind a veil of clouds. Why are you always too busy for me Why do you think its ok to ignore me These days Im so desperate to get your attention Ive even thought about cheating on you With the moon. Feel free to leave any feedback or suggestions!

Are you a morning writer, a midnight writer, or a “whenever the muse ambushes me” writer? There’s a strange kind of magic in discovering when our words choose us. Some of us wake before the sun, chasing quiet light and warm coffee. Some of us don’t touch the page until the rest of the world sleeps, letting the dark peel our thoughts open. And some of us… well, the muse hits like a mischievous little lightning bolt while we’re doing dishes or minding our own business in the checkout line. There’s no right rhythm — only the one that feels like home to your voice. So tell me, loves: When does your creativity wake up? What time of day (or night) feels like yours? Let’s learn each other’s patterns — maybe even borrow a little inspiration from the way our community breathes.

Never trust the clouds They’ll always disappear on you Fall back on them and you’ll fall right through I once fell for almost 30 minutes Expecting a soft and cushy landing Before realizing clouds are nothing more than a Smokescreen. Oh, there are some I suppose Who try to be transparent But how can they propose To float under celestial creatures— With harps and wings and halos— For Heaven’s sake, everyone knows they’re just trying to Obscure our view of the rainbows! Others are very diplomatic Only appearing when necessary In a grave aspect We hope they have arrived to Please the children with their Misleading shapes and figures But really they’ve come in their perfunctory fashion To rain on our parade. There were a few ancients—all pagan— Who could read the signs Discern clouds’ hapless ways and their silver linings, Appreciate their secret wanderings. But I’d prefer they not hide or disfigure The Second Day’s ordained division Or if the modern world is looking for Our own version of a Virgilian Guide to heaven We’ll always be disappointed By the clouds. Feel free to share your thoughts.

It's such a beautiful country love poem. Let me know what you think 💜