…not sleeping exactly, under the snow, •
more like hiding from the mysterious, •
the fickleness of spring in New England… Continue reading →
Yesterday, I wrote of bright daffodils, •
shining and bobbing in the April breeze. Continue reading →
golden yellows so incandescent their •
passing cannot be mourned nor forgotten Continue reading →
the land rocky, hills greening with the spring •
returning, returning like a love lost Continue reading →
In the days before poems, we asked the sky •
what shall we do with all these bright, loose words? Continue reading →
He who enjoys doing and enjoys what he has done is happy.
