Poetry Forum

This morning
with my arms open
I savor a photon-drizzle.

Satiate my thirsty eyes, April,
with the unceasing fall
of your radiant droplets.

Molten gold streams down
my shoulders, my middle aged
ribcage.

This morning, wind blows its oboe
on emerald wish-fields.

I’m a pauper
lost
in your abundance.

Arun, this is nice loved...the wind blowing it's oboe on those emerald wish-fields

Thank you Anniecat for being here.Smiles.

It sure feels humbling when you're drenched with the tears of heaven. The imagery-metaphor combination is indeed, excellent.

Thank you Bery for your comments. Glad that you've liked it.