By spring, birds have returned to be birds, and trees have returned to be birds.
Tossing a fishing net, I attempt to catch that shade of rose in early summer that tries to explain the sky.
In order to write, one needs a sea of one’s own.
My bird speaks well of you!
I call this one: Ocean Dew On Lake.
Ever put your chameleon on argyle?
Take to the sky – fathoms deep.
Become the salt of the earth and add water.
Found a windmill. Set it free.
For your sky of kites, keep an endless green meadow for running and never wake from it.