MedowA Poem by To be scene To be heard
Sun striking my skin.
Warming it to the touch. A light breeze picks up. Little strands of hair lick my face. Cheeks turning a blushing red. Brushing my hand across the green grass. Feeling its dampness from morning dew. Sitting under a large oak. In the middle of a calming meadow. Listing to the birds sing. Waters rushing near by. Small creatures prancing around. Not being disturbed by my presence.... © 2012 To be scene To be heardReviews
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6 Reviews Added on May 14, 2012 Last Updated on May 16, 2012 Author
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