They whisper as the breeze in the cottonwood trees,
as the grass drinking morning dew,
like a butterfly languidly moving its wings;
Just being its subliminal self,
Whisperings from small branches
moving gently in soft breeze,
Like Dragonfly hovering, such beauty
are their shimmering wings.
I lie down in the meadow with deep content,
hear the morning birds join in
singing sheer songs of life and joy,
partaking with delicacy and skill.
Whispering like the hope in our hearts,
finding the tune we recognise from afar,
Songs sung for eternities
losing each other, but now
Recognising the whisperings anew.
© miriam ivarson