Some say that golden stories stem from treasures long forgot, or grow from tales as big as whales that scarcely hold a plot. But like all stories, bland and bold, each poet has their root- a source from which they pulled their page to turn their cherished loot. As it so happens, many creatures stirred…
Based on ‘In the Grass’ by Arthur Hughes. Heather Sing to me of scarlet skies and I will paint you a valley, sealing your sigh in my wind. One, where on topaz mornings, I might look out onto the restless waves and see in their rise, a reason why my heart skips stones. -Amy Struthers
Northern pintails brushing blue, the crescendo of their wings, weaving windsong into words some say that, “Up jumped spring.” The rising sun, through veils of dun, atop a pool of glass with flitting beams, does bend the streams to cast a liquid brass. Children fashion cradles, and white whiskers out of string, and…
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