That’s where they gather the most,
the moss
and the moments
that remind them they’re free.
There are three small pines
where they’ve cast
their shoes. Here they
pause to remember their past.
And then there’s the moon.
Eyes and swords skyward,
they whisper thank you
to stars, and know they’re home.
::
Catching up again, backwards. Because in November we poem, even when things get crazy busy.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 