My Poet

Most people come in prose— masterpieces that the world could not do without. But when You wrote me, you wrote poetry— imaginative, concise, and rhyming You. And when I look around, I see glory where others see cliche— bits of poetry sprouting in the grass, jumping trees with squirrels, resting moon-like in the clouds. I … Continue reading My Poet

Winters

How dreary! Winters in the South— grey trees against the mournful sky— weeping, sulking, drudging in the cold. ••• Make my heart like winters of the West— unending sky that gives and gives the snow— swirling, glittering, hopeful in the cold.