Disclaimer: No AI was used in the creation of this poem.
A foundling left in a field of flowers
A tiny, delicate sprite of a child.
Found by a young mother
Whose own child had passed
Taken in by the woman
Raised to be human
Taught to love and be loved
Her voice was like wind chimes
Her laughter was like sleigh bells
Hair like spun gold, skin like alabaster
Raised to be a lady
Kind and gentle
She assisted those less fortunate
With love and compassion
She brought sustenance to the needy
Bringing joy to all who knew her
A foundling left in a field of flowers
A tiny, delicate sprite of a child.
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The Block Mayor
Like every warm day, Terrence is finishing this day on his L-shaped porch, sipping whisky from a dented flask. Cars pass by slowly, and he watches young women pushing babies in strollers; he hears the neighbors’ arguments and knows which have a regular income and those who are unemployed. Terrence is the self-appointed block mayor, laying judgment on his fellow folk.
By Andrea Corwin 5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Wonderful poem! So beautifully written!