The Bookish Kind: The Poe Toaster

A poet's grave, 3 red roses, and a bottle of cognac.
Read the article here. More here, here, and here.

Joy

I will never tire of the wind,
be it a cold winter blast
that takes me off guard
with it's bitterness,
or an exhilarating spring or
fall tempest that sweeps me away.
I get caught up in it every time,
...it's as if the wind is calling
my name to come out and play.
The trees become my cohorts,
...those gentle giants that sway
back and forth with delight,
as they gracefully bend to and
fro - they get caught up every time,
too, and are surely clapping their
hands in mirth.
In these moments, I am a
beautiful bird who was made for nothing more than ascending
to the heights where the currents await me. Joy.

For the beauty of the earth