picnics,
grassy fields where wildflowers grow.
sitting on the edge of a pond,
sun kissed noses and red cheeks.
afternoon walks,
tall trees and white fences.
technicolor sunsets,
dripping gold and warm light.
quiet coffee runs,
comfortable silence.
muffled voices, background noise,
warm mugs of liquid wonder.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
