These birch at the riverbank, boulder-fractured of growth resting bottom of the mountain scree — they are me. Standing defiant, I insist on being though stone pushes and gravities are drawn, I drink strength of river.
Granite sings, should you open your eyes to listen. I can tune my growth to their song. I am woman, that pale goddess. And I insist you try.
Gathering of breath from wind, from rain, my arms have set to wave. For I bend, not break under the song of the heart. You would too, if only you could see.
10 responses to “These birch”
At times we are birch.
But not always!
That’s because life’s a birch. 🤣
🤣 You’ve still got it, I’m glad to see!
“Glad”? You use that word, but I don’t know if you know what it means. 😉
Sometimes I’m too positive for my own good 🤣🤣
🤣 let your inner Marvin shine.
🤣
This is beautiful, Michael!
💕
Thank you Cindy 💙
You’re so welcome, Michael! 💕