Red

Fur on the inch of old, cold coffee is grey. The day breaking in at Bly’s window is grey, a sleepless night hangs grey from her eyes. Do something. Her thoughts are grey.

Clever Little Farm Girl

Thyme winged her oars through the air, guiding her boat toward the empty suspirating pen. She stowed the oars and tied off, standing with practiced balance.

Dear Heart

I’m planting tulips when I hear them. Voices, drifting smoke-like through the trees. Standing, I listen, staring at the bare earth. Thinking of the tulips that, come spring, will press through the dirt to spread white petals for the sun.

Honey Magic

Perhaps there’s a town, clinging to a forgotten road between one city and another. Nestled with its back against a jawbone of mountains and guarded by forests on all sides.

Scales and pearls

It’s the perfect night for a story.

Even the rowdy winter ocean seems to hush itself. To crowd the shore in silent, rilling wavelets that tumble toward the high water mark as if stealing close to listen.

Timberline

The silence is absolute, as if time never began here and never will. How can I describe it? As if a wall of glass has been placed by the great hand of a God in the midst of the forest, and no living thing may pass.

Real

It’s going to be a wonderful day. Of course it is. Half a mile above ground, the air is chill and sweet as champagne. A murmur gentles the morning silence as commuters trade snippets of conversation, and the gliding arrival of our train does nothing to disturb the quiet.