Winter Blues

With tongues of wood, we absorb the hollow sigh of winter’s wings. Lean into it’s wounds outside the window. Climb it’s bare stalked vines of sadness to sleep. We grow flowers in it’s flesh, await the smell of spring.

If winter should end mid arrival, if spring should arrive too early, I will greet it with eager and bliss.

Wind's Whining

I have trouble making certain connections, but there is something wonderful when ten paintings, or ten poems, can be made from a star, or a scar. When clarity becomes such, that perception no longer matters, and a sudden intensity for life looms up in abandon for me.

The wind blows and shows us just how close to the edge we each are. Just how close life touches, then pulls away.


When you listen to the words of the writer, the essayist, the poet, you listen for the themes and climax. You listen for the beginning and the end, of a person, a thing, a place, a tangent. Life unfolding minute to minute in the wakening of words. The content of living spilled over a page.

~ ck