like the ocean of her infancy journeying downward from the mountain beneath limbs of spruce, pine, and evergreens with new growth of olive green.
The sun filters through as if to sneak a peek, trying to catch a glimpse of her progression across brown smooth rocks that stagger as steps to a flowing passage.
And when she toddles and falls, she pours like ale from a broken pitcher across cracks, nooks and crannies, still seeking the path once more. It is there she mends within herself as she crosses over, under, above, downward and onward.
Above her birds sing, only to be drowned by her voice that some describe as babbling.
Nearby I sit in my rocking chair charmed by her consistency to change, but yet hold steadfast to integrity, and without her knowledge,
she brings inner peace with such clarity by her beauty and symphonic sound.
A homonymless man writes shows what it's like to look up the laid he skirts when you’re lying prone(d) to the sidewalk, beer / joint / needle dangling from your hand /lips / arm.
Love Tinka
Sandie May Angel a.k.a. Sandie Angel :o)
Well done, poet