neeraja
Newbie
In a corner of the morning, where the dew begins to glow,
There’s a secret kind of kindness that the busy never know.
It’s stitched with threads of silver from a spider’s silken loom,
And it carries scents of jasmine to a lonely, quiet room.
It’s a pocketful of stardust tossed upon a weary heart,
A bit of whimsical magic to give the day a start.
For love is not a mountain that we’re all required to climb,
But a dandelion seed that’s blowing softly through our time.
So listen for the whispers and the rustle of a wing,
And notice all the beauty that a simple act can bring.
For when we share a glimmer, or a story, or a rhyme,
We’re painting colors on the gray and standing outside time.
There’s a secret kind of kindness that the busy never know.
It’s stitched with threads of silver from a spider’s silken loom,
And it carries scents of jasmine to a lonely, quiet room.
It’s a pocketful of stardust tossed upon a weary heart,
A bit of whimsical magic to give the day a start.
For love is not a mountain that we’re all required to climb,
But a dandelion seed that’s blowing softly through our time.
So listen for the whispers and the rustle of a wing,
And notice all the beauty that a simple act can bring.
For when we share a glimmer, or a story, or a rhyme,
We’re painting colors on the gray and standing outside time.
