In the quiet darkness of dawnas the birds wake slowly to join meand the morning star heralds the birth of a new day…there You are I breathe you to the root of mewhere my ancestors resideThey know you…our Autumnal embrace…

It’s here in the quiet of this empty roomShe whispers through the window to greet mewith the gift of strength and foresightIn the waxing light of dayThe brush of her cheek to mine and I remember LoveThe cool September morning…

I’ve worked with people with disabilities in some capacity my whole adult life. Through this work I’ve developed an empathy for all people and an awareness that we all experience life uniquely, through whatever physical modalities available to us. It’s…

A beckoning from the mountain that echoes through the hollowSails deep into the depths of me and stirs voices long since silencedWakening daemons bedded in fear and shakes moths from their eyesOn bended knee in reverence of the flow that…

I sit and reflect. It’s the crest and trough, the ebb and flow and the betweens that’s life. We stumble over heredity and ingrained reaction, as our essence struggles for expression. How did we stray so far? In what quiet…

the flood waters recede and the banks of the river reveal their treasures while the gentle flow’s babbling soothes my once rapacious mind. i turn back and look up river at the rapids that almost did me in after those…

the fear of lack or losing. the fear of the great mystery. what’s just around the bend. the fear you’ve told of and i’ve accepted. the fear that crept in from the west. amongst which I write. without direction of…

these words whispered to the coursing windslike dust blown clear across the plainslanding in foreign fieldssettling at the roots of giantsscuffed onto the hoof of the great white beastand all at once every particle’s sacredevery being sees it’s self in…

I can’t say what made me go out in the woods that day, barefoot and without my glasses. It was nearly dawn and the fog still lingered in the cove. The ground was covered in pine needles, soft and damp…

A crescendo of dictate forcesBuilding, swaying, titlingPraying …“don’t hang on, just let go”….Road ever passing, the river flows…. The dust that turns to ash that turns to sand that turns to glassThe clawing and pining….the past that’s behind meA broken…