Houses, like people, aren’t always constrained to what they were designed to be. Some resist growth. Others expand beyond their original façade: add room, break walls, deepen foundations, and reach towards the heavens and open their doors in welcome.
Owls are silent hunters. When satiated, they perch, deceptively wide-eyed and fluffy cheeked, calling who who.
Thoughts, like clouds, sometimes float half-formed, suggesting shapes and ideas open to interpretation and easily blown away.
You’d think that in places where rain is more norm than exception, everyone would choose to always be prepared. But nobody carries an umbrella in Eugene.
~ after John Brehm’s Timely Question
Time rushes by and stands still at the same time because it is I, not time, that changes pace.
An elegy of remorse for youth. It’s source? Old age. I saw grains of sand sprinkling the water, shifting in the hourglass, morphing into claws, shaping into memories that catch children.