Quite near but not quite tothe white tile balcony,at dusk there soared or flitan acrobatic troupeof house bats out for joyof moths and flies and
Got nothing much to say.The golden trumpet treesall chucked their blooms today.The streets were bright with strands. A corgi on a lineignored his owner’s will,tugged
What if the Spirit of God just appeared to meright now, and it was in a flock of wild turkeys?I awoke and, lying in my
How sad the moon must becenturies of poets explainto hang so dimly in the skyvague beacon in the raincircle behind passing cloudsgazing down from her
Eucalyptus bendingsouthward, angledby sundowner winds, you pointover the top of lastDecember’s spot fire, saying,I just knewthis would happen. Photo by Ghiffari Haris on Unsplash
Ah, la lune est brisée, said the childto the half moon. She stared, pointing her fingerat the night sky. Her sudden true and wildthought broke
More lonely than I really want to beI find your name written on the back ofmy hand where I used to write the names ofboys
“God is love, but get it in writing.”– Gypsy Rose Lee Between the two long rows of large chairs, you might see Godin the therapy
after Genesis 3:7 who bounced me on his knee and hummedthe William Tell Overture to make me a horse,who amazed me with the garage
