White Ravens – And More Stories
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What is it about two o’clock, the bitching hour? Dreaded double-strike. The eyes snap open, no retreat from wakefulness– it’s just a poem.
A tree in my yard, upheaval in my country. The tree stays the same.
Bleeding from twenty small cuts on my arms and legs; yard work has a price. (www.osoti.net)
Bricks upon more bricks; playing with mud holds them tight. Sore: understatement. (brick: obsidiandesign.com; circle: backdoorsurvival.com)
The freeway is the ocean, the stars are just as high, but fewer. I am tired, but can still pretend what is real is somewhere near, not a lifetime away. My imagination saves me again. (top: en.wikipedia.org; bottom: lovethesepics.com)
Standing in the rain is different if you don’t have a dry home place.
The east wind blows cold, ruffling the hair where it lays against my ears. It smells of fir, river, and traffic. My urban life is a friend with whom I often argue. I always question my place in it. Answers … Continue reading
Last leg underway; the roar is on the outside; both my ears are full. (top: postadvertising.com; bottom: seatmaestro.com)
Plumbing is my bane: water seeks its own level, just out of my reach.
Writing is the meat. Music is vegetables. Reading for dessert. (kabobs: halfhourmeals.com; pecan pie: myfrienddebbie.com)