With leaves creating his canvas
And on the lawn he lays on his chair and spins
Creating art that is not created by a paint brush
But with movement like water
The leaves become feathers
Nostalgia is nearing the heart
Without further a do
He wakes up from his dream
But he forgets
Lovely. You have a way with the poetic. This came together nicely. I hope you continue to write your own poetry, as well./lm
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