Golden
- 3 days ago
- 1 min read
The whispering wind,
constant or fleeting,
brands the mind
with an enduring correction,
continued by time.
To walk slowly.
Warm rays of sun.
Grasses held
in their own gold.
To breathe deeply.
The circle, they say,
worked into
the everyday.
To roam graciously.
Persistence and pride
carry us
far and wide.
A glimpse of something
grand—
golden, almost bliss.
Then shift.