What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,

What do I care
That my songs do not show me at all?
For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire,
I am an answer, they are only a call.

But what do I care, for love will be over so soon,
Let my heart have its say and my mind stand idly by,
For my mind is proud and strong enough to be silent,
It is my heart that makes my songs, not I.

So much depends..upon a red wheel barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Thresholds

transitions and new steps

recycled tea bags, wax paper, thread

harassment emails, thread, bamboo scrap that refused to allow itself to be place in the recycle bin, and acrylic paint

Behold

the collsion between reality and brutal stone.

Trust

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