the intersection
of tree
and sky,
the lines
they paint
across pale blue horizons
while two black specks of bird chase each other.
***
Truth,
expanding over snow-dipped houses–
it will never be found beneath my pen.
***
the earth knows things my mind cannot see.
***
but I can still sit back,
exhale,
and soak in the view:
a single, conscious moment in the universe.
February 6, 2016
The
extraordinary
powers
of letting go,
magic
of feeling pen
on paper skin–
we are all
cut out dolls
made with razor sharp scissors
let me
let go
and make my art the way I want to.
I will whisper away
those sad navy blues
and caress them with specks of gold
found only at the bottom of the ocean–
a place
where all artists can drop their ink
and return
home.
December 4, 2015
Pen
finds its way back
to the paper
back to my truth
in the hopes that
“mine”
can still be
“ours”
in times like this–
white capped mountains
filling with the sound
of my shadow,
a lost soul
radiance
spilling out into sunlight
even the mountain missed,
talking with my sister
I know that the tradition
will pass on
the human way,
of knowing
the snow will melt,
flow,
and fall again,
just like the edge of my pen,
longing for love.
January 27, 2015
