For those who have camping on the brain…
Closer to the Clouds
It is the rustling of the wind,
or,
perhaps the play of trees.
The gentle sound of a hushed whisper,
coming up over the mountain yonder way.
Movement in rolling waves,
as the breeze caresses the tops of Maples
Oaks, the Pine which stole a spot not meant for it.
Laying here with you, I watch the sun dance
the light ripple through the green veined leaves,
as we sway in the gentle hold of the twisted rope.
Should we go?
Our feet do not move from their slight slumber,
instead lie in quiet contentment.
Lightening bugs begin to play across the lawn,
creating a show of lights
They match the beat of your heart,
as I rest upon your chest.
Just one minute then we shall go.
For the chorus of the frogs,
will sing the end of day,
as we sleep closer to the clouds.
Legends of Green Isle 