Right now, as I sit in the garden of the little wood cottage on the lakeshore,

I can not help myself but think of how your face might look if you were here to watch,

as the solemn wind weaved in and out of the branches on the trees.

The leaves gently caressed the clouds in the sky

as they abided to the whims of the wind;

where ever it pushed them,

how it shaped them into vague outlines of circumstantial familiarities.

I can still feel you here,

though for the longest time I had thought this was because this place had become a part of you.

I had thought it had healed a certain broken-something within your soul with an antidote of accumulated youth,

and warm summer lakewater.

but now as i find myself here,

its as if the life around me thrives off the energy of you.

parts of your soul linger here; they are still the creaks in the floorboards of this little wood cottage.

they are the whispers in the waves that speak my name as they lap over the sandy shore.

I know now that you've not adopted parts of this place into you,

but had happened the very opposite.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

its not too great, but hey, I tried.

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eternalpoet1389's picture



huggybear's picture




nightlight1220's picture

VERY good!! Enjoyed it

VERY good!! Enjoyed it totally!

...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."

"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "


allets's picture

this Poem like Chapter 1 of a novel. You have a gift for combining words and emotions in tight prosaic images that grab the reader and make then want more, lots more - this is how novelists are born - they begin as poets and lyric writers - ~(:D)- Lady A



penky's picture

beautifully described L'exquisiteDouleur

i agree, i feel like turning a page and reading about someone doing something somewere


L'exquisiteDouleur's picture


thank you so much that made my day, only in my dreams am i a writer so it means a lot