His first birthday, altered


With each breath, we commune.
Essential now as air, you’ve become
The scent of pine.
The cold rush of stream
over ancient tumble of stone
worn smooth by endless caress.
The withered russet flowers
in the winter garden,
reduced to unadorned
yet still lovely
which pledge
much more

© Julie Ayers


About Julie Ayers

Seasoned apocaloptimist, keen admirer of well-placed words, fierce mama bear of extra special children, black belt hugger, and advocate for a fashion rebellion which elevates the most human of hearts to socially acceptable outerwear.

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