When you let your heart be gentle and at ease
you note the play of light, the golden hour
and your sole purpose is only to please
yourself, like every springbent flower
To feel at home, alone among the trees
at peace within, without a passing care
these are the days, I would have more of these
skirting the wilderness, in silent prayer.
New life is something like a breath of spring
and getting older—lingering winter chill
which tries to weary out my well-worn being
and wants to kill my hope, but never will:
Held in the heart of love, there is no doubt
the light within burns bright as that without.
Experiments in Fiction 
Ingrid, this is along the lines of the Loveliest of trees poem by A.E. Housman
but clearly better. 👏🏽 Wow. I like this so much. For its fleeting sound that makes me want to live in the poem longer. Thanks so much. Great poem.
skirting the wilderness: about the woodlands I will go. Just gorgeous! Happy you’re in this happy place. Bless you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much for your kind comment, Selma! I don’t know this poem, but I will look it up now 🙏
LikeLike
A beautiful sonnet, Ingrid. I read it a couple times just to feel that ease!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Merril – hope it helped 😊
LikeLike