dogtrax

North winds always blow cold, collapsing the mountain inside a moment

Finding poetry in the dew of the morning, ghost writers at work

We can still go to the wild things, singing — from Hearing Wolves Through The Dark Pines by Joseph Fasano

Crouched down inside the dark, where disquiet sleeps until awoken, listen for the wild song of the wild things, spoken whispers in a raspy voice, reminding me to run

Original Poem: https://pbs.twimg.com/media/FpvQ5OcXwAE5Ceu?format=jpg&name=900x900

Its insides, stringed, like a cello, folded up; we chew on the muse

Watching lazy steam dance and curl, and then dissipate, on an apple pie

Colored dust remnants smudged on gloves – fragile old leaves; Crayola collage

for Algot

From above, with love: the world is wider, wilder than you imagine

for #writeout via DS106 Daily Create

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free — from The Peace Of Wild Things by Wendell Berry

A wandering wonderer, pausing to peer into the dappled head of a flower, a hole inside the broken trunk of an ancient tree, a mossy rock cradled in the river, a writer finding words inside the wild, with hope, he's me

In the warm daylight, the ladybugs sneak inside the windowpane gaps

for #writeout via DS106 Daily Create

Now merely thin husks of what was once beautiful, the day-lilies dream

for #writeout via DS106 Daily Create