Each Flower Is a Song of the Past Meeting the Present

Image by Công Đức Nguyễn from Pixabay

You sing the light of another morning’s ebb — how the sun passes over the sky in a lazy dance, how the moon hides her face against the sorrow of the afternoon.

It is too soon to say what winter will bring — we think ourselves powerful against its frigid might — but the flowers will return as they always do. Hoping for more may…

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just another writer with too many cats

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Jillian Spiridon

Jillian Spiridon

just another writer with too many cats

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