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The Living Painting

The rolling green hills
A lone maple stood
The sun was just peering
Through the clouds
Over the horizon.

The clouds rolling lazily along,
Golden puffs and a blue canvas,
A living painting
And she, sitting against the maple.

Surrounded by light dawn air
One does wish for these morns
They could last for eternity
The lone maple, lone nevermore.

The landscape perfect
From the maple,
The clouds,
And her, all flawless.

The Maple

A powerful and lone giant
The hills, his home
Standing for generations
And still young.

His shading, guarding limbs
Powerful, withstanding many storms
The foliage so beautiful,

The Clouds

A golden ray shone through
They danced in it's light.

Shimmering with aurulent lining
Rolling, constantly, to new locale.

Never sleeping,always moving
The breeze, where will it take them?

Watching over, showering down
Our land, the green hills, now.


An attire of none too fancy,
But not of the plain either,
Still beautiful in her own way.

Tawny hair draped around her face
Upon her shoulders
A silken look about it.

The face, I wish I could say
I know that face
A beautiful face, delicate.

A thought I will to believe
It never happened, never would,
Nothing but dreams and fantasy.
very, very nice. very flowing and somehow calming.
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