It’s a crazy week, but feeling good. The storms washed away enough pollen that I can breathe again. Of course, molds come after rain. Fingers crossed they don’t bother me.
And with all the pollen and storms, Frank Sinatra is inspiring my words this week. No idea how he inspired this poem.
Whispering in the wind at night, Under the Harvest moon, “There are no frights but those you make. We are your fears. We are your blight. We are what you will never be.” Sleep takes hold. A shiver in the night. The wind dies to blow no more. Clouds loom where once happy, silver fingers danced. “Who will dance in the shadows of the moon?”
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