Golden hour’s golden edge.
One. Deux. Tres.
A farm framed,
in mirrored recognition.
Nurtured by nature.
Ever vigilant.
The figured alarm, disarmed.
Empty bells ring, quieted.
The tether speaks the silence,
Taught and held.
With delicate reverance.
Buyoed by fragrant wands conducting the sweet symphony of their kindred souls.
Lavendar fields will hold
Their expansive hearts
forever.