there’s another place a city road leading to the edge where red roses color a meadow and a forest line provides a crooked path, like an open door, unseen, but known to wanderers, owning the sense of the line crossed over, where shadows are honored like myself to have been there once



there,   standing beside a forest,   its green declaring war with one color,   victorious,   capturing the eyes with intimidating power   a meadow, jealous of rough barked guardians without voice   reaching to, almost touching infinity


In the forest when raining numerous rhythms create a liquid orchestra   the pulsing of loose waters   spontaneous unexplained combinations   a perfect blend of fragrance   pine needles and lily of the valley   generous displays of greening and wetness appear like glass          


Shadows crest softly onto treetops where slivers of dusty light drift to the forest floor   the moons proud side full of fluorescence melts to the surface forming sharp angled irregular pools of light exposing moments of resting life   its reflection, a silent intruder is unequaled      


Black balusters and mahogany stairs lead gracefully to a parquet second floor landing.  Decades of voices carried the water of words to this quiet circular elegance surrounded  by bookshelves and photos of New York and Paris.  Gold painted plaster moldings wrap the area like decorative ribbons.  It all speaks with identity and belonging; above there … More GRACEFUL


In the forest, under a canopy of boughs, rain creates a symphony as a portion of the sky falls.  The moisture provides a density buffering all sounds.  In the shadows there is calm; a noiseless base.  Birds have secured sanctuary.  Footsteps move quietly over damp leaves and twigs; dryness removed. A distant rumble of thunder … More WALKING THROUGH


A high rigid forest, crowned thick with boughs of brilliant green, lay broad their hands to heaven like wheat fields where breezes melt from blue skies.   A small path below, its surface smooth, relinquishes its space to those who pass; their voices and names remain bound in the safety of mossy blankets.   Long … More A SMOOTH PATH


It’s a high place. A steep yielding to barren openness. A story of peoples, strong, rigid as the soil, long suffering, squinting at a low sun. Crowded forests dream of wide horizons while shouldered tight to branches unlike their own. City people. The release of flesh onto streets and into buildings; the exhaust of words … More A LOW SUN