By Lora Pavlovich
The wind blows warmly whooshing through trees
These hands know nothing of winter’s will
Newborn, new season, summer lingers and falls
Asleep beneath the blue skies and burnished leaves.
The wind blows warmly whooshing through trees
These hands know nothing of winter’s will
Newborn, new season, summer lingers and falls
Asleep beneath the blue skies and burnished leaves.
