Height of summer wordle 123

Enough
the word comes gusting out
like a sigh,
like a telling breeze
from the South
with the rattle of dry leaves
in the slipstream.
Still the sun keeps belting out
'though the shade netting
no longer filters
the fierce long fingers
of light.
The cows move through
the bitter, burnt dust,
and the figs drop to the ground
half ripe,
with pieces taken out
by the golden orioles -
their cries fill the valley.
This is the time
when I dream
of taking the train North,
to sit by a mountain spring
in the rain,
surrounded by moss and ferns
and green.

(fierce, filters, keep, enough, pieces, train, cries, gusting, bitter, springs south, out.)

My lucky stars Wordle 122

There was a period in my life

- years -

when my heart was numbed

and nailed to the floor.

I persuaded myself

to live a vision not my own

and by degrees

be slowly driven into the ground.

A few short, sharp words

loosened the nails

and I flew home

to a place I had dreamed

was lost and gone.

And now I stay, nestled,

in this hilly space.

My heart grows

and soars like a hawk.

I give tribute to the stars that be -

If not for them

there would be no me.

This is my Home! - Wordle 121

I've hitched my heart to a pocket of dirt

and my fragile, once,nay, twice, bruised self

cautiously grows tender tendrils

that twist around the trees and hills

and tangle me up 'til my pounding heart

beats to the same strains as the toll of cow bells

and the circling crows

on the edge.

'This is my home'

I nervously state.

Then louder -

This is my home,

and with wonder -

This is my home -

That in all my scattered days

I should have struck such luck

to find something concrete,

something whole,

which provides incentive

to grow.

The sun and the moon illuminate my days.

I feel my pace match theirs,

sowing seeds and growing roots

that tether me lightly

to this sweet place.

Scene from Above

The landscape below us becomes familiar

and I have a sense of homecoming

in my adopted land,

as we circle Faro,

defying gravity in this metal canister.

I see our shadow race below us

as the salt marshes come closer,

looking like blue-green curds

their organic shapes held together

by threads of green salt bush banks.

Along the edge of the land

there is the golden sand

and the white, lacy froth

and the blue, blue sea

wrinkling into the far distance.

I hold my breath as we roar

above the runway

and press down into my shoes,

head down, gripping hands

I clear away all plans

Then we're stopped

and standing on the tarmac.

New plans are made. Prayers are said. 

Bags are grabbed

'Thank you God for our daily bread'.

(Gravity,plans, thread, salt, breath shadow, sands, shoes, bread, sense, head, landscape)