Where do our wishes go when they fall with the stars?
Spring is reaching out her hand, pulling us slowing out of winter. I hold her tight, interlace her fingers with mine, chasing that...
Where do our wishes go when they fall with the stars?
Holiday time
A year with paint stained hands.
Thank you.
Notes from my table on loneliness
Monday's poem
Monday's poem and my life within it.
Dear Friday,
Dear Friday,
Dear Friday,
Grief
Dear Friday,
Monday's poem
Dear Friday,
Dear Friday,
It's not mindfulness, it's rest.
Dear Friday,