the rain at last: a different kind of song
death’s old scythe catches the morning light
through the evening mist slower than your slowest thought
old garden path smells sweeter when walked at twilight
tide call: grey waters rise as limbs raise sails
the old country road swells with pride as wildflowers take over
thousands of little rituals disguised as kindness
not a single word: beetle beneath the stone deserves to keep its secret
a border imagined: summer hands over the keys to autumn
just barely: the rain at midnoon quiets the fires of chaos
