Poplars sway in the wind against the day’s final sheet of blue sky.
The sun makes orange streaks on the uppermost branches.
The wind whooshes, a hushed, surging sound, almost lonely.
Or maybe it’s the sound of cars on the main road, commuters rushing home from work.
The poplars turn to ash as the sun sets.
Small Stone, Day 6, Writing Our Way Home
poetry... mostly...
writer, editor, educator
"This world is but a canvas to our imagination"
Writing Lostness
A selfish poet
Stevenson's French culture blog. No shit.
author + reader
. . . a meeting place where poetry chapbooks are celebrated and reviewed
Poetry, nature, books, & speculative philosophical musings
pages from an unbound book
breathing through our bones
fixing blind spots w/ cards
"Tarot helps you meet whatever comes in the best possible way."
Thoughts on writing and reading
the view from my precarious perch
Bespoke.Like you.
Snapshots of the mindful life.
Balanced On the Edge 