top of page
  • Writer's pictureAmber


What sense is to be found in evening air, In the gold light of day’s end, In the breath that softly steals over through and into green Til every growing thing is sighing When the birds sing their mates back to their nests, A quiet orchestra of homecomings With the hum of bees swelling its strings, And the trees breathe a stilling charm over the land What can I read in the tendrils that brush my skin And the breeze that brings me honeysuckle scent, The sweetness of a night not yet arrived. I am waiting. Come home to me.

231 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All
bottom of page