Every day the sunrise and yet not sameness. We live textured lives: rough and smooth, natural, modest, and mysterious. One cannot kiss and think about the kiss at the same time, it will be lost.
from the crack in the blinds
a sliver of light
One does not live at high noon but for a moment. With the increase of light comes the increase of shadows. What remains?
until the puddle forms
The ancient tree and the sparrow, the starlight over an open field, the ways we are lost and found when we realize there are no straight lines home. One finds beauty in the broken when rightly held. It has been suggested that the stories are best told while sharing tea in a rust-colored cup.
between the river banks