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  • Waiting Room

    I wanted to write like Annie Dillard away alone aware– not here in the middle of this  city/suburbs life. Leave the concrete and multiplying cars with their inhuman noises, seek a vista, a vale of color and light, to inspire and bring forth words like a flowing brook across quiet pebbles. But I’m here in…

  • What I Saw and Heard

    Writing comes from listening, so I’ve taken quiet steps outside away from the loud  to hear better. Eyes open this time  to see AND hear–this– the delicate drops of fuchsia,  ballerinas fluttering like so many upside-down firecrackers, fragile, full of beauty dropping feathery tendrils to the silent air.

  • Plumbline

    I stray like string in the wind untethered from that tight spot at the bottom holding me in place. Anchored there tension provides strength for the tune to be played– a fiddler bows across the tautness and chords are plied, played as His fingers hold me in place. Snapped, tho’, the string aflutter, undone there…

  • Thanks Giving

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