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Metta
On the window sill sits a sapling - it might be a pink lady, it came from one's core - sprouting green from where no light reaches. Less than a year ago I found it... More »
Metta
Early morning – there is a band of white light set against the blackness of the window - all that is left of a full moon. My days have this stripe, too amidst the sweeping,... More »
Metta
at last, defined solely by shadow, I find my wings, beating a mixture of blackness and light my arms inch into this new movement - tired, from so many long years and attempts at being... More »
Metta
It is the new slant of light, the framed sunrise, oak leaves and fir. It is her voice in the darkness, needy and soft, the warm comfort of flannel bedding. It is a rainwater... More »
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