The Artist

I can see the shadow of a bright white light source, but not the source.

It casts highlights on the trees— painting them like an artist

deciding which leaves to feature

and which to play in the background,

to create a masterpiece that will never have a price tag.

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When future knocks on my door, it emphasizing the growth I have taken the staircase that never stop going. Forever growing and in either direction.


the clouds moving across the pale blue sky, dripping rain down on my patio. My cats sleeping next to each other, butt to butt, when about two years ago they couldn't stand each other. They breathe in

Cold Rush

Time to increase down the aisle. Opening up to something else that I can't see, to feel the assault of love slap me in the face.

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