Monet

Dark moods in which I brood
ride the leaves of poetry books
marking the seasons of my life

Springs words, still fresh to the world
capture wondrous blooms awakening
boundless soul with wings unfurled

Summers fire, filled with hearts desire
loves caress given freely without cost
travel from where I am to were you are

Autumn’s palette, painting visions of Monet
soft natures breath whispers life to me
by quiet brooks with pen in hand

Winter’s crystals fall, and through it all
poems written on leaves pressed lovingly
between the pages of my life

Stoic Poetry

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