Cynder Malin-Stremlau

There were two children in summer who would walk everyday, when the moon was right, across the sandbar to the kissing trees. They walked with hair that disguised them from above as moving dots of blonde sand.

The flowers died on a Monday.

I am that dance across the forest floor when the wind comes, and I am hidden away under the grasses as the field sways, soft and warm from the sun like any fine bed.

In order for Eternity

I tried to write you down

But joy cannot be trapped in page

Nor harmony be bound

If all that was remembered 

Soon becomes forgot

At least i have still a smile

At first a sense upon her brow

Perhaps the shadows grow

The unlike scent upon the air

Of orange brown, of Gold

All at once does dance the wind

Her whispers are enough