these days that pass like the brush of a wing laughter that rushes in on the long arms of the wind these days that propel me forward, onward, upward lift me and hold me high it is the stones that ground me in the somber moments remind me of the depth of soil of soul…

shadows and sunlight dress the yard and remind me of the rest the leaves that cover the flowers slowly moving upward protection against the last remnants of winter birds, squatting and restless on the naked branches wind flustered and hungry from the long return it is dangerous to breathe to write to live when the…

quiet stillness wrapped unwrapped not meant for comfort not tonight but for opportunity to hear to listen and to see the difference in where the two meet and where they meet where do they meet? there is no comfort not there or here mind responsible again for leaving the rest awake wandering at times but…

it is not wise, a voice mentioned as I opened up the book turned to an empty page and held the pen ready to begin it is not wise to write when your fever climbs again and your head aches to the point where it is easier to sit eyes closed, to type, then read…

unmoved like stone not one but many gravel that lines the floor of a swimming pool white on turquoise moved gently rocked until empty empty until full once again the water moves and splashes against the walls spilling over the lip like a song or sweet words wasted and falling through the tiles maybe not…

the ice along the branches breathes while I sit waiting the storm passes slowly somewhere else sight is masked by falling snow sheepishly I write knowing there is much to say and yet having no voice by my own admission to express or make sense so I retreat into silence – no not silence retreat…

at the corner of the building standing near the trees snow fell in wide white flakes over me and everything else to the left the bench, black and stark stood in contrast empty and unwelcoming almost almost because despite the emptiness I felt the pull, insistent and relentless to fill it – to fill the…

I I am pulled at Against Like threads on And unfinished piece of fabric Loose and flowing In the wild winter winds Torn along the grounding line Then flying, flying Only to be caught once more In naked branches One by one those pieces fall And fly on their own path Away, away, away… To…

the night swells with the falling snow winds carrying each particle to lay them down in layers like fabric loosely woven and turning gathered and cascading down the long legs of the land light through the windows and my own shadow mingling with the fresh white coat nestled between the evergreens tomorrow will bring the…

in the pause of the moment I find myself standing up against the rough and frantic passing while time rips itself into pieces again and again floating to the ground like tiny pieces of paper part of me wants to jump up and try to capture each one fall to the ground to assemble the…

what ails the heart the obvious thump thump that echoes through the body what is left unsaid stopped by fear, grief but knowing that the motion the embrace the reassurance that is held between the palms heart what ails floats away on the breeze leaving me standing here on this hill overlooking the lake stilled…

a drop falls like a bulb of water that rolls gently down the vein looking for its final place and the rest, waiting for the heat of a day to bring new life rising above and over in the moments to come words fail or act the veil while the rest behind is scattered, undone…