The Promenade - Marc Chagall
When we walk out in the morning air,
My thoughts soar high and away.
I watch the breeze lift up your hair,
Send collar and coat tails astray.
You always tether me close to you,
A soft hand to stroke and hold.
At first it comforted, now I rue,
For your clutch seems far too bold.
I am my own blithe spirit, sir !
You may not hold me too close !
For if my soul becomes a blur,
Or reflection of yours, at most,
I’ll soar away, reclaim what’s mine
And leave this love that’s heady wine.
A weekly pilgrimage to see what others post at Magpie Tales - this week is Mag #173 ... check it out.