maybe death isn't darkness, after all, but so much light wrapping itself around us--

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth, it can lie down like silk breathing or toss havoc shoreward; it can give gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can sweet-talk entirely. As I can too, and so, no doubt, can you, and you.

It doesn't have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don't try to make them elaborate, this isn't a contest but the doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.

Music: what so many sentences aspire to be.

Poetry is one of the original arts, and it began, as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth.

Sing, if you can sing, and it not still be musical inside yourself.