i will not pluck these clouds from the sky and place them into organized time slots.

i will simply watch.

and see which cloud follows me home.

perhaps every song

is simply a way of saying:

i was here.

i think slow mornings matter so much to me because they allow me to move slowly enough

to walk through the forest within me.

tonight,

the house breathes with the storm.

and so do i.

I am only a whisper on the breeze
A softly falling snowflake in a sea of white
A dancing leaf from atop a majestic oak tree
A single drop in the stormy sea of Life
Unseen
Unheard
A brief spark in the night
And yet
I am here.
I am here.

Truth can be tucked gently into humor, just as much as it can be with beauty.

one leaf speaking autumn.

a hundred leaves answering summer.

tonight,

there is a lump in my throat
almost as gentle as the fog
over the mesa
on a cool, quiet fall morning.

The hour before becoming.