The cold wind's bitten our fingers, wrapped in mittens, but never enough
A place to gather words before they get lost.
The cold wind's bitten our fingers, wrapped in mittens, but never enough
Despite Autumn's change, one tiny flower endures; act of resistance
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