RSS Feed


Inside our houses
heat has dried us out,
parched our skin white–
the houseplants curl
in on themselves,
dreaming of deserts.
Outside our storm doors
the world shifts beneath
its frozen weight, deep
in its own dreams.
Step outside.
This whole world
only needs
a tiny cup of your heat
to melt it into
what winter’s old stories
even the thickest ice
can become
a soft summer rain.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry

%d bloggers like this: