About ‘When the wind paints’ by pol ledent
A tree leans gently-not in surrender,
but as though listening
to the whispered secrets of the meadow.
Its limbs, streaked in midnight blue and violet shadow,
reach across a sky not sky-
but a sea of emerald breath and electric dreams.
Leaves drip sunlight like honeyed syllables,
each one a syllable in a…
Colors
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