Is beauty in the eye of the beholder? Your willow knows its true value, independent of grandeur and applause. And when some notice, their pictures capture volumes. I imagine many can relate. Beauty is also in the eye of its own humble self. Thank you for sharing, Lee Anne. Always a pleasure!
Every day I say my gratitudes alongside an aged willow that stands at the lake edge. In the late fall, encouraging to rest; by early spring welcoming it to awaken. Willows watch linger, and listen deeply.
Beautifully said. Willows are mysterious, too. I didn’t want to go there. But… on a winter-dark night at the river’s edge, an old willow stood. Her bare fronds scarcely moved, heavy with dew. A lone figure in a long black cloak stared at the river where frosty mist hovered under a silver full moon. An old crow flew onto the limb of an aged, gnarled oak. Suddenly …Stay well, my friend!
Is beauty in the eye of the beholder? Your willow knows its true value, independent of grandeur and applause. And when some notice, their pictures capture volumes. I imagine many can relate. Beauty is also in the eye of its own humble self. Thank you for sharing, Lee Anne. Always a pleasure!
Thank you, John. I appreciate your continued support of my posts. I am not untouched by your kindness. It comes through your writing, too.
Every day I say my gratitudes alongside an aged willow that stands at the lake edge. In the late fall, encouraging to rest; by early spring welcoming it to awaken. Willows watch linger, and listen deeply.
Beautifully said. Willows are mysterious, too. I didn’t want to go there. But… on a winter-dark night at the river’s edge, an old willow stood. Her bare fronds scarcely moved, heavy with dew. A lone figure in a long black cloak stared at the river where frosty mist hovered under a silver full moon. An old crow flew onto the limb of an aged, gnarled oak. Suddenly …Stay well, my friend!