She speaks the language of wind
only the children of sibyls can hear
in the susurrus of her rich sylvan hair
fluttering in the sweet soft twilight
with the scarlet hues of sunset
lingering in the west of the sun.
Willow
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She speaks the language of wind
only the children of sibyls can hear
in the susurrus of her rich sylvan hair
fluttering in the sweet soft twilight
with the scarlet hues of sunset
lingering in the west of the sun.
A Cat in the Mirror 
The alliteration and deeply pleasant language drew me in, and I adored the imagery, the painting that you gently crafted here. A genuine delight.
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What a scintillating impression on my poem it is! Thank you! It’s a great encouragement!
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