72 thoughts on “de esos tonos..

  1. Estos son mis tonos favoritos, Leyla. La flor cerrada quiere guardarlo. Tus imágenes capturan la belleza. Un beso y feliz fin de semana.

  2. I like your Beautiful Pictures, big thanks Leyla….❤❤❤

  3. Esta armonía de colores transmite paz. Has conseguido captar toda la belleza de las flores. ¡Felicidades!

  4. Qué bueno es ver que hay cosas que no cambian… La segunda es mi preferida.
    Estupendas, como siempre.

  5. Sin duda alguna hay detalles que “encajan” a la perfección… Es lo que tiene la naturaleza, que es muy…

    Un beso con el acento de un sábado diferente, ya sabes.

  6. splendid! loving your blog! great theme and posts! followed!
    please spare time to visit my blog at saadiapeerzada.wordpress.com.
    that would be a privilige.

  7. Gracias Leyla por tus me gusta en mi espacio. .. muchas gracias
    .. y me encanta tu presentación. .. me llama muchu la atención. .. me encanta… 😉

  8. Me encantan las flores, por ahora he cultivado unas cuantas rosas que han merecido muchos aplausos. Cuando están aún en proceso de apertura, simulan la vida que es aún sólo una esperanza. Un abrazo

  9. Pic # 1 the green center looks almost like snakeskin.
    It’s electric blanket weather in the NE tonight. Bundle up😉

  10. Tu page es muy hermosa Leyla ,
    Las flores y trabajo en general esta espectaculares .
    Bendiciones !

  11. Ancient Tombs of Banan

    Four very light pebbles attached
    to flung-sprung rubber band found
    between new laid bricks, retrieved
    by mound-viewing haze-gazer reminds
    him of the day he gave up that for this.

    Tall seeded grasses wave as a group
    passes and a small bee buzzes with
    interest. The man with no plan sees rice
    on the land, chattel by cart, its grain
    raked onto black plastic on the road.

    Some is still standing, Van Gogh’s yellow
    landing between green and smoldering
    fields. Ggachis fly by, bales are stacked
    high, a rooster lets loose surrounded by
    mountains’ shapes feathered in as if Ross

    took his two-incher and stroked Payne’s
    gray in a jagged horizontal line between
    white grading to blue atop, and the
    harvester’s fog below. Set free again, he
    sits looking at ancient burial homes

    so rounded and soft, kept mown, who
    knows how, in pairs that excite the
    dream of the lonely tractor driver
    who precisely gathers the rows. He
    leaves tracks for spring’s women to sew.

    Here comes a guard atop Folk Museum
    to punch his post. He doesn’t look hard
    or he’d see the forbidden beer that
    mimics the color of one more field’s
    cloud that floats by but still notices tears.


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