Old Pines

On the south facing slope dry, warm dust of clay cliffs.Fuzzy crocuses.Some sleepy, some stretchinghigh, to the sun lit sky.Blades of grass,pushing green,growing.Bright leaves, slowly unfolding like arms, like art,swirling vein patterns,demanding nothing, but gaining all of myattention. Walk slow,through these forests.Stop, often.Bend to touch.Feel the moss, the lichens,No longer brittle but, still firm, still … More Old Pines

These Mountains

I am home inthese curves; intoxicated.tongue tied. My eyes follow their arching bodies up and up ,their gorgeous frames making my heart raceuntil I reach the tops, only to plunge downward , over and over until my eyeswet from all the wonder. These mountains.

What Time Is It?

Nothing ever happens like you imagine it will. John Green wrote this, but he isn’t the first. This honest sentiment is one we’re told, we say and that we, to the very core of our beings,  know.  And yet, here we are imagining the hell out of our lives, every day, every hour; how that … More What Time Is It?