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| Topic: Love | |
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Were I blind, I would still understand
that word which is a language of it's own. I hear it in the two honks of a car horn when a neighbour departs his family. I feel it when it rains. Cats and dogs nest in your lap, damp and comforted. I smell it when my spouse cooks my favorite meal. The burning wicks, the aroma of freshly picked flowers, it is our constant companion, dining at our table. If I were not blind, I could find manuscripts dedicated to this word, craving to get it just right in feather and pen. It has been carved on trees, in caves and tattooed on flesh. Worn on finger, wrist and neck, even a daisy chain to crown Mother with it. The grasp of newborn fingers elicits it, and when you receive a warm smile that smoulders like an anointing over you, know you have been touched by it. It is instinctual. At towering bridges it posts 'post it' notes. They hold on to you, not allowing you to jump, as your tears stream to join the waters that flow to the sea - reminding you we are one. |
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Were I blind, I would still understand that word which is a language of it's own. I hear it in the two honks of a car horn when a neighbour departs his family. I feel it when it rains. Cats and dogs nest in your lap, damp and comforted. I smell it when my spouse cooks my favorite meal. The burning wicks, the aroma of freshly picked flowers, it is our constant companion, dining at our table. If I were not blind, I could find manuscripts dedicated to this word, craving to get it just right in feather and pen. It has been carved on trees, in caves and tattooed on flesh. Worn on finger, wrist and neck, even a daisy chain to crown Mother with it. The grasp of newborn fingers elicits it, and when you receive a warm smile that smoulders like an anointing over you, know you have been touched by it. It is instinctual. At towering bridges it posts 'post it' notes. They hold on to you, not allowing you to jump, as your tears stream to join the waters that flow to the sea - reminding you we are one. There is art in your words!!!! |
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Nice poem
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N
 ICE
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Thanks Minglers
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From conception to the end...it is always there...if you are Not, you do anyway..when you Miss it, seek it out for comfort and solace and you may find it closer than you think
Its all around us from the moment you open your eyes and even after you close them....it's there❤ |
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From conception to the end...it is always there...if you are Not, you do anyway..when you Miss it, seek it out for comfort and solace and you may find it closer than you think Its all around us from the moment you open your eyes and even after you close them....it's there❤ Nice Intro To Start
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Were I blind, I would still understand that word which is a language of it's own. I hear it in the two honks of a car horn when a neighbour departs his family. I feel it when it rains. Cats and dogs nest in your lap, damp and comforted. I smell it when my spouse cooks my favorite meal. The burning wicks, the aroma of freshly picked flowers, it is our constant companion, dining at our table. If I were not blind, I could find manuscripts dedicated to this word, craving to get it just right in feather and pen. It has been carved on trees, in caves and tattooed on flesh. Worn on finger, wrist and neck, even a daisy chain to crown Mother with it. The grasp of newborn fingers elicits it, and when you receive a warm smile that smoulders like an anointing over you, know you have been touched by it. It is instinctual. At towering bridges it posts 'post it' notes. They hold on to you, not allowing you to jump, as your tears stream to join the waters that flow to the sea - reminding you we are one. I love it!
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