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Printed from https://writing.com/main/books/entry_id/429065-Fleur
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Rated: 13+ · Book · Personal · #982524
Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation.
#429065 added June 1, 2006 at 10:06am
Restrictions: None
Fleur.
*Balloon4*           SPRING: 12 'Azamát (28 May)          *Balloon4*


Weather where I am: 78.
Weather in Edmonton, Alberta: 56. Go Oilers!
Weather in Pony, Montana: 44. This is summer?

I opened up my account and I had an icon by my name? I didn't order it! So ... found out it was a gift from AL Author Icon. I wrote to her: 'I chose 'fleur' because I'm a gardener at heart. Then I'll change it to 'tree' or 'nature path' or ... because? Because I can! *Smile* They don't have 'old baloney sandwich' or 'village idiot', but someday ... ... one can always hope!

She responded that I should send the request to the SMs.

Short poems cinquains recently penned:

Flesh, flowers

Talking
to Delaney
and talking to Kevin;
it is the purple clover that
listens [163.163a]

What lingers in my mind

Broken
butterfly wings,
spent lily-of-the-valley,
the senses of beauty lost, your face
at death. {163.163b}

Songs of freedom

Doves fly
with new found wings
when their cage is broken.
Here at death's door, I urge your soul
take flight. [163.164a]

Prize fillys

Carol
trained by Reba
her arabian ride
circles the ring. They trot on by.
She floats. [163.164b]

Under the oaks

Blackjack,
I kneel to you.
Red, white, black, bur and pin,
I pick up acorns, gaze at you:
scarlet. [163.164c]


Car has tire on it. Found my title. Found tons of stuff I wasn't looking for. Some good things, some painful. Spent day at Borders, looking at maps and descriptions of Montana.

To me Eastern Montana feels like North Wyoming or West Dakota. The rest looks like a bite chewed out of Idaho. Missoula really is isolated, isn't it? Two hour drive to the nearest outposts of nowhere.

Yet, I suspect that one could find much of the world in Missoula. Might be a good place for a writer ...

IMAGES

A bird flies from the mulberry bush. I look for forgotten black gold. I hear vigorous chirping (at me?).

The ailanthus has bloomed. I break a leaf. Stink-weed.

Tree stump and sawdust. The bushes cut. The cut though from the alley lies bare, bakes hot.

Steam heat. The smell unter der Linden.



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© Copyright 2006 Kåre เลียม Enga (UN: enga at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://writing.com/main/books/entry_id/429065-Fleur