Sunday

Wild and ridiculous - loud mating calls in the woods.
Clacking sticks together - expressions of false seriosity.
We advance.

And here she comes - gray-faced and earnest in her need to warn us of the danger.
Grunting and chastising without a hint of a smile in her eyes.

Brown hair, pulled back. Mousy.
Ordinary tank top... capris...sandals.
She's clean. If she's crazy - she's well kept by someone.
Maybe she's for real.

We slink away like younglings caught smoking behind the tool shed. At once, defiant and cowed.

Surely, she laughed behind our backs.

Surely, she's laughing still.

The Forest of Haunted Longings

In the forest of haunted longings
'neath shimmering starlit skies
Dwells a girl who sings of wishes
with dreams behind her eyes

Hope Dawns

Forty year-old hands gently crafting with clay...a tiny doorway.

Forty years - and the desire to find a way to step into other is undiminished.

And so, a doorway is crafted and installed. Over time, little stones form a pathway. Flowers are planted as offerings.

This isn't charming yard art. This is an expression of hope.