The first gray light of a winter morning.
Walking among my fruit trees
I cry for my dead son.
I then scatter those tears
Like seed across the cold ground,
But the birds won't even go near.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
Morning light begins, pale Through the window. Just a whisper in the darkness At first, then, later, a blue sky Cloaked in golden su...
The Davis Arts Center Poetry Series present two fine poets, Barbara West and Mary Zeppa , on Sunday, August 19th, at 2pm. This is a free ...
She was quiet for a long time, it seemed like years, And I was patient, I knew I could wait her out. Finally she said, "Every tre...