A place to gather words before they get lost.

Neither bound nor glued nor pulped into paper, the book of tree is what it says it will be — a harvest of wood and branches and stories of time

The saxophones save the day - in the gap between orchestra pit and maestro pendulum, there emerges the breathy whisper of reeds on air

in response to Laura

Fields, pastures and trails sleep dormant beneath the snow; white landscape design

Some SnowDustFlakes never touch the Earth — balanced on a beam of leaves, they can only gaze at the ground, each TreeLimbRescue another example of the synergy of disrupting gravity

The little bird’s secret lingers in the air, something soft – one can barely hear it

No, not the nightingale of dreams nor the ravens of Poe nor barn swallows swarming below moon’s midnight glow

We whisper back, the wind, the small bird’s secret, hidden and folded and read once again

Poem the world - even when words won’t do Poem the world —

I remember now what I meant to say that day I forgot what I meant to say to you —

Poem the world but write it, true

One of six snaps, each of the other five react, the neck nearly cracks from impact, notes bend their way back, the writers gasp, with the inevitable song collapse

He writes words, slant, on music manuscript — a song in the key of slow — then wonders, Now where will all the notes go?

Admission is imagination;

this museum is sculpted out of precipitation and time, shovels and boots, paws and claws, shadows and light

Sometimes we wish we could walk backwards through the snow

To watch where no one will go