'tis a hushed little thing. elusive and most often times unnoticeable. 'tis but a whisper, a ripple of a murmur.
it caresses and tugs, a sprightly character with playful spirit like that of a kitten pouncing upon the green.
yet, when disturbed, it rumbles angrily and howls with all fierceness.
amidst the clamor of the city beyond, my heart flutters as it hears the sweet breeze beckon,
twirling in my little garden, nestled between the glen. the tall structures of stone, impressive as they are, cannot grasp my heart like the sweet moment in the garden savoring the breeze.
so, although I will travel miles and miles beyond my little glen, into a city made of stone,
my heart will remain home,
in the garden hearing the sweet breeze beckon.
the girl in the garden.