What Gossamer Threads Enslave Us
I breathe in, breathe out. The wind moves the orb where I lie And speak of the beauty, throw sparks at the bright, Weaving a story by day and night From threads, such fine, fine threads I spin.
Category: Writing
More Than Grief
I wait for the day when your picture inspires more than grief. When the joy comes back from six feet deep…
The Sum of a Pumpkin
“But no matter where the pumpkin rests, the farmer will always love it best
As a bit of Sunshine captured in shell of Gold or orange and tended well.”
Jumping Tracks: Life After Suicide
“That’s how death is. We close the casket. We fold the flag. We make that last radio call. We weep, we breathe deep, and we walk away from the dead back to those who still live. And each step kills something inside us because Ben should still be here. Right here walking beside us.”
Breath of the Mountain: Pine Valley
My spirit
Quiet in the cacophony
Of the birth, decay, and growth
Of being.
Hope
The song that perched within my soul
And sang from branches high
Has flown to trees on higher peaks
And left my heart behind.
Hestia
“The worshipped has become
The pilgrim; straining, burning, dying,
For a chance to change
What is written in the stars.”
Marking Time with a Cricket
“Then a lone cricket starts playing his tune into the dark silence.
It makes me feel wonderfully small and inconsequential to mark time with a cricket…”