a place to be.

it was a cottage.

robustly quaint.

much larger disposition for what it ain’t, but the field was such a green.

a sea of what’s to be carried along the breeze and the only place to be was a quaint little cottage of stone.

the sun kissed the left corner of the doorway each evening before she set.

I loved it when she did that, always painted the way out and in, a muddled orange.

a life in play peppered with replay was beauty’s side effect in this sea.

the rock was so gentle and anchored you home.

the only visitors were ones of your own and we’d sit in front the cottage.

simple chair and mug, steaming air among the fragranced landscape sang in duet. chamomile and petrichor.

a loving arm to kiss and honey suckled lips that bloom only in my midst.

those are the mornings I miss as I sit alone.

thoughts hand in hand roam in this mind of a field and though I wish to grab hold of those that pass they are not mine to own for I am an observer in this home called flesh.

and the rest have yet to be partook in.

written by Troy Pierre II