I.
Sky spits snow I wave away, tired of the same old conversation.
II.
Patch of snow melt shows sweet brown dirt, where old sage bush whispers—Garden, grow.
I.
Sky spits snow I wave away, tired of the same old conversation.
II.
Patch of snow melt shows sweet brown dirt, where old sage bush whispers—Garden, grow.
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
One Poet's Writing Practice
A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
