My hope is that my blossom, but a bud, lies still yet in my heart ready to unfold if ever that golden light might fall upon it.
My fear is that the very last feather has been plucked and these wings will never know the sky.
Poems and Pictures
Poems and Pictures
My hope is that my blossom, but a bud, lies still yet in my heart ready to unfold if ever that golden light might fall upon it.
My fear is that the very last feather has been plucked and these wings will never know the sky.