poem

Not Objects Exactly

December 5, 2016

Words are not objects exactly, but people perhaps. Children, reflections of me. Laugh, skip, sing, jump, joy pour word on word then mist through wild entwining rivers rushing and roaring through acres of time. Words are not objects exactly. Pluck words from the air twirl on a finger, arrange on a page. Hard fast hard hurl down change white to black then stretch to long …

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That Day We Call Thanksgiving

November 23, 2016

I think I sensed it before I got out of bed this morning: a certain happiness, a lightness in my spirit like the light peeking through the edges of my closed blind. I got up, opened the blind. The room flooded with white light. Snow on the ground! So that was it. I am always happy on the first day of snow, that first glimpse …

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Storm in Early Morning

September 18, 2015

Crack and boom of wild wars. Spirits rise to darkened skies. No hay today. I sit at my desk in the early morning, facing the blank white blind which I have pulled across my window to hide the dark. No face, no beauty in that. Words puddle on my computer screen, muddle from my fingers–fun to splash in, maybe, if you have red rubber boots, …

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