The Sacramento Valley shares its beauty in all seasons. This morning it’s the ethereal beauty of a winter fog across the fields, and the earth feels cold to the touch. Looking up, there are shades of gray and silver. Nearby, the sweet twitter of a goldfinch.
Where do my poems come from? From the pencil to the page. Or from my hand to the pencil. Or from my thoughts to my hand. Or from the universe to my thoughts. That’s it. The poems are a part of the universe. Just like us.
May I become an island for those seeking dry land
A lamp for those needing light,
A place of rest for those who desire one,
And a servant for those needing service.