Poetry

Looking up at the sky
All I heard was quiet
All I heard was white noise
All I heard was silence
I felt the peace of the nature around me
And I felt the breeze hitting my skin
I felt the blades of grass brushing against my ankles

But suddenly, I heard much more than what I had previously heard before

The world erupted into sound
I heard the birds singing
The crickets chirping
I could feel the sun beat against my skin
And I heard the world for the very last time
I basked in the sound I knew wouldn’t last long
Before the white noise would return
And it was silent yet again.

Life is but a journey
A discovery of who we are
A reimagining of ourselves
A time where we can be stripped of our past

And create a new future
We all have different journeys
Different paths along the way
Some may be saturated with difficulties
While others are merely short
But we all undergo this journey of life
What we find at the end of the path
May not be what we expect
We may anticipate a new change
where there no problems, no obstacles
And see everything good in the world
We imagine the good in our memory
We find our happy
And discover the light in our lives
But throughout this discovery
We recall from our past
And we find that memory of light

In the heart of the forest, whispers begin,
The sprawling green unfurls again,
A verdant mantle starts lush and deep,
Where secrets of the springtime drowse asleep.
Beneath the boughs of budding trees,
The earth awakens with gentle ease,
A symphony begins of sprouting seeds,
Whispers hint where the wild wind leads.
The brook babbles bright and clear,
Starting a melody that all hold dear,
It dances past the stones and reeds,
Sweeping along the watery steeds.
As every leaf finds its frame,
The landscape boasts a vibrant claim,
A splash of life in every hue,
Beneath the sky’s embracing blue.
As petals bloom and hearts entwine,
The world revives with a divine design,
All who wander, pause and see,
The glory of the springtime spree.

Come to the meadow, where dawn meets the sky,
Where green whispers of spring softly lie,
Gentle grass where the dewdrops hold sway,
Glistening jewels at the break of the day.
The chorus of birds in the cool morning air,
Sings a melody of a realm without care,
Each note holds a brushstroke on a canvas so wide,
Heralding spring with joyful pride.
The sun climbs high, its warm rays embrace,
Touching each blossom, each leaf with grace,
From daffodils golden to bluebells shy,
In the dance of the spring, under the sky.
Flutters of life in a green tapestry,
Nature’s own heart beats wild and free,
With every new bud, the old is reborn,
In the light of the springtime morn.

As the first blooms of spring colored the town of Merryville in pastels, an old painter named
Elsie returned to her childhood home. The house had been empty since she last visited,
which was decades ago, right before she moved to the bustling city to pursue her art career.
Her brushes, once eager with bright ambitions, had slowly dried as the city sapped her
inspiration.
Stepping into the garden she once knew, Elsie was greeted by wildflowers and ivy reclaiming
the stone paths and wooden benches. It seemed as though nature had painted a masterpiece
with the very palette she had lost. Motivated by the riot of colors, she set up her easel on the
sprawling lawn, her hands trembling slightly as she dabbed her brush into the paint.
Each stroke on the canvas brought back memories, each color mixed with tears and smiles.
As the garden came alive on her canvas, Elsie felt a warmth spreading through her, a feeling
she recognized as the joy of creation she thought she had lost. Spring had returned to her
garden, and with it, inspiration had returned to her heart.