In quiet bloom, the roses lean,
Toward skies of peach and golden sheen.
Soft whispers curl in blushing hue,
A garden’s breath, both old and new.
The stems remember summer’s grace,
Yet winter paints a gentler face.
Each leaf a lullaby of green,
Each bud a hope, not yet seen.
So let the petals fall like thought,
Not perfect — just the joy they brought.
A canvas made of light and air,
Where beauty lingers everywhere.
No comments:
Post a Comment