As the chrysalisseems quite cagey to the worm,blind to its future–So I say to my own gods,“This…
Young Oaks in Winter
don’t talk to me dear after first cup of coffee…
carried by the wind
can only shadows speak to the darkness or can they address the light on the edges of shadows are the silver-toned grayness
open for the light
search me in these pagesfeuille morte, russetand sepia oneday when there’s…
cool breeze is stirringleaves are tapping on shouldersAutumn has arrivedleaves raining red-brown and goldleaving way past silver dreams