Arrival

creepy_creek_by_bugonawall-d3dy26bThe first place I looked was where the spring rounded the grove of oaks and began to widen into a creek shadowed by sycamores. The moss grew thick on the bare spots of earth where the sun only reached in winter speckles between branches. It spread across the rocks—outcropped on the edges of the creek and sunk into the bank sloping up to a path the deer and raccoon spent their lives making. Continue reading

Down the Road

My notebook of old typewritten poems

My notebook of old typewritten poems

Is this a dream or not, I’ll say
Sitting in the dark
With a magazine in my hand
And the harmonica on the floor
By my socks
The war outside continues
Constant crashing, breaking
The drip, drip of the melting icicles
As they fall softly to the ground
To the snow
Put on your boots and go outside
Crash Continue reading