Let it be

I live where the wild roses grow.
Natural petals circle the heart in their simplicity.
Open and exposed, the prairie wind sweeps her harsh fingers through my hair.
Sudden icy chill cracks open before the long scythe of the chinook arch.
The land shapes the people in her image.
No time for frivolity when the arctic breathes her sigh down the back of your neck.
Huddled inward, her people blossom at the first touch of sun.
The promise of sun soaked sprawling patio days keep her wanderers here.
Revelry in the blissful fragrance that invites her wildness into the heart.


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