Time seems elusive when the hands of the small clock bend themselves backwards
for Algot
A place to gather words before they get lost.
Time seems elusive when the hands of the small clock bend themselves backwards
for Algot
Sheets of frozen rain, falling like knives, inflicting pain – we dread the sleet
Last night's storm winds have cleared the trees, blown free the leaves, and still this morning, as the winds take leave, I can hear branches groaning and moaning about the loss of cover, like a blanket, stolen, from a spurned lover
Walk a foggy morn as if you're inside a haze of rain clouds, dancing
A maudlin feeling descends, like a leaf falling from a changing tree
Desolate roadways, frustrated navigation; it's isolation
Each morning, with coffee, I open the web I avoid the news, and find the Create instead I read it and ponder - remix and yonder - and spend the day with the art in my head
for #ds106
A stand of Pines groan with the full weight of the wind; roots keep them anchored
Surface tension: A leaf in dance with water, listening
Well within the Wood, the coolness of the old Pines provides us reprieve