Oh my goodness, here I am again peering out the window on the door by my computer desk; this is my favorite spot in the house. The sun is beaming long, streaking fingers through the dark, roof scraping angry clouds…
As Spring comes on and Nature starts to unfold itself into fresh life, in even the tiniest of ways, we often ~ as our poets and lyricists attest to in droves ~ begin to think on Love. It’s a season…
Her eyes search the crowd. She wonders at the way they follow casually, some eating chunks of bread, some laughing at a newly told joke, some gossiping about the man and his miracles like he is a million miles away…
She holds hope steady, most days, careful with every step. She keeps it close, far from eyes that would condescend, words that would weaken the flame of maybe… of some day. For she is the story heard too many times. …
Those things we remember from childhood can be heart-breakingly sad, blue skies and fluffy white cloud happy, chuckle funny… in fact they run the gamut of our emotions, only in primary Technicolor hues and are usually outlined in thick black…