A cold scurrying sable, digging on downward, refusing its fur
A place to gather words before they get lost.
A cold scurrying sable, digging on downward, refusing its fur
A wandering creek, in motion – frozen over - a fine ice sculpture
Fluff up, wild duck; a catalogue of wood or brass - paper barber's razor dust broom hemp cord lettuce bread sugar: how much does one need?
The comfort of soup comes less in ingredients than the love of chef
It's never too soon to mourn the passing of a fellow poet and strummer on the streets of an American city, gunned down by policies meant to divide us from each other, but what words suffice to capture the moment, other than anger and sadness?
— for Renee Good
Hands of an old clock rotating in time and rhyme, in a slow creak now
A lone wolf howl the first full moon of the year gracing morning skies
joy is a tall tree with roots deeper than a mountain
love is, too, if you let it flourish on wonder, and settle in soil
inspired by Steve's metaphor poem
Fields home to flowers now lay dormant in winter, asleep in the cold
Thin strands of gossamer catch the dewy morning light -
if a body's angled just right, you just might wander through a world awash in spidery strands of glitter