An artists pen shades the scene
From darkest black to forest green
A leaf windblown leaps and tumbles along
then comes to rest on mossy stone
Fog slowly creeps gently through the trees
Tendrils of vapor create an eerie scene
That dances lightly upon the breeze
An imaginary glimpse of natures will
The leaves are frozen in the air
The breeze that was is not there
The moss upon the stones is there
when at other times they lay bare
The fog and mist is rendered still
The moistness you can never feel
With your mind it seems so real
This picture that is painted still
this is a good poem really, it perfectly relates to the saying that ~the goodness of a play primarily depends on the writer~ the description is awesome.
not bad for number one, Race. perhaps 'alone' instead of 'along'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is one poem out of several thousand. It has been published and copyrighted. It is just the first poem I put on this site.