moon shape with strings,

Autumn is licking the willow's bough. Clouds hang over our tresses, and frost blankets the old sod.
My papa made home made pies.. Sugar shells folded with peaches, strawberries, cinnamon, and syrup.  (The belly folds are here to stay folks.) 

Autumn air brings shapes onto paper, as I pardon my blues through poetry, and prose.

"She said, do you know why the morning has dew, or why evening brings a breaking rain? So, your wet cheeks feel less alone. She told me, it would end, just as quick as the beetle turns, as the mud becomes river,  but love is not landlocked.   She said, love pours from the cotton garden, it is magnified humble pie, bait it with your poetry, but it was born to abandon. 

  Love is not bound to four hands in the garden, the face of a cowboy, or cheeks at the alter. Love is found by footings, or rocks, or hills, or rose patches.  Love is moon shaped strings, circle shaped pies, clouds, your father's hat, the autumn's day robin, the postage stamp, the passport,  the crop circle. More than geography, more than distance, more than chemistry, or earth's surface.  Love is all things floating, drifting, tingling, winding, bending. Love is soup. Love is bread. Love is the slow clock in the kitchen, Love is the half eaten meal, Love is the feather you wear, Love is the light on your pillow frame. Love is the most valuable thing in the world,  and without it,  we are missing parts. Without love, and it's splitting, without love, and it's abandon, we are only, half awake, half alive."

kisses, and be well. 

xx



all writing by Amy Nelson

what i wore

dress- vintage
boots- value village $10
blouse- mom's closet.

facebook/ twitter/ bloglovin