THE SUMMER I MISSED THE WILDFLOWERS

Abuse is sometimes cunning,like a mischievous fox whoby morning leaves you wondering just where it isyou left your right shoe.Or glove. Or the logical side of your brain. Abuse is also quiet,like the great Yukon grizzly whosleeps away the coldest months,tucked somewhere no one would suspect butusually,far too close for comfort. If only we knew. … More THE SUMMER I MISSED THE WILDFLOWERS

It Makes Sense Here

It makes sense here. The waters are high from the precipitous summer; the rocks and pebbles shine brighter, constantly polished beneath the surface. Clear as far as one can see and still as my own heart becomes when this Autumn morning sun gently bathes my sorrowful face. But it is no day for troubling oneself … More It Makes Sense Here

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?