Daily Archives: April 17, 2017

the mindful peace of the cypress beckons, she bows in the wind but doesn’t fracture, she knows well the moments, but nothing of time her poetry is written in presence, not words in this business of life, of death and of poetry yesterday is, i think, best forgotten ~ just a figment, after all, an old locked-room mystery, stored among a million neurons, a trillion constellations, sound proof, but for the occasional cerebral accident… Read More