poem, "the language of summer"

the bridge is a land apart

leading to fields of meadow flowers.....pale blue       yellow        bright orange.

soft crimson petals 

                             lilting quietly in the language of summer, a time of the fragrance of smiles.

the bridge crosses over shallow waters, speaks to tiny pebbles and soil that has been 

washed clean and pure.

      it waits for the silent traveler, whose footsteps are laden heavy with dark fields 

                                                                                                                  and heavier clouds.

across the field, i see the bridge. it is a vehicle to move my heart and soul far from this ground, 

this dark room, filled with rain and rivers overflowing.

i never knew a bridge could be freedom. it is a new planet, a different word and sentence for me to hold and remember. 

like an expanse of land empty and waiting for history to be made, beyond the bridge the fields are vast to explore. 

the bridge is a land apart, separate from each corner of the room. 

it is beyond me

as far 

as 

the eye

can see.

by Debbie Schramer