dragging the hand through freshly tilled soil stirs silent spirits to life, encouraging a closeness a purpose of being as the hand passes through previous millennial seasons each with a message of endurance and promise, impartial to flowers or weeds for this year or next  


The soul of singing is a glorious sunshine like a sea of golden wheat tops ready for harvest as morning unfurls a heavenly glow   emerald softened leaves twist at the request of passing breezes   ground shadows from the hands of clouds cool the skin while a piece of sunshine crosses over a back … More A GOOD START


Day turns over its hand the imperfect fame and weak applause of dusk follows into nights cover where careless fears settle within a harvest of solitude   the sound of breathing entertains the imagination of rebels  in hiding nearby while in the black beyond there is always something like a vanishing accident or an unused … More SOMETIMES ALONE


There was a narrow reason to mourn   A cerebral molting spread over partly framed orderly opinions   He was a recluse of twisted dreams pure with talent a personal connection to the souls of interest within his circle   He formed a texture of words weaving clouds into reality   Rain washed him, arms … More GONE


Bronzed hands and neck. Field workers at 5am.  The sun cuts sharp.  Tractors crawl, knives slice.  Work hard breathing. Sweat equals blood.  No one speaks. A cloudless sky.  Baskets stacked and leaning.  Water passed around. No breeze.  Distant highway traffic. Boots crossing rows.  Busy hands. Two shirts. Golden rich soil. Geometric plant rows.  Water machines … More FIELD HANDS