2-2018. Winter has it's moments, but wishing spring comes soon!
The lines in my hand, Were read once, By a gypsy, who Predicated a long life... But with many interruptions.
My spirit communes with the four directions: To the north are in-laws, our aging mother, her last
When I first heard “The Blackbird,” In the middle Of night, I was just thirteen.
As we shared stories, The warm hum of voices heard, A cup of love spilled.
Life is but a dream, our fantasies, spill, like liquid tears that pool and vaporize into the air.
One lit candle burns brightly As I make a wish upon it’s Golden aura, that Humankind May learn to caress the earth As the wind does a field of flower…
This evening the blank, white page is open. My nerves are on edge, while a storm forms on the horizon.
It’s a billion stars moving and co… While we sleep. It’s one miracle after another and… We do not take the leap. It’s the great heave of nature
An owl hoots on this cool, crisp Spring night. A sound that’s distant yet echos
Pink hues from the west Filter through Snow covered boughs Leaving, The evening light
There is my shadow, A dark outline of this body And yet, it also holds,
The birds flock to the bird feeder, some with black, capped heads and others with
Walking down the dirt path, Sounds drift on the air, Birds chirping, leaves Rustling, dogs barking. Interconnection of life
In the rustle of leaves the wind plays a tune, the change of season is on the horizon. It asks permission
Sometimes wonder about a star, way afar. How life might be in outer space,