Poetry, like breathing, repeats itself each day.
Each line is a fresh drawn breath of air....words which flow with the rythm of a heartbeat... essence of the lives we live, and work and play.
The blue lights on my Christmas tree glow so softly as if they were in some way, themselves poetry. There are purple lights around the dining room window and the combination sets a very quiet, somber mood. This is the essence of romance. Reflections caught by the ice on the windows and the light cascading across the freshly fallen snow produce a melody in light, refracted by the night. Christmas is coming.
steven
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| Poetry... like breathing...* |
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