Every stone on my path
triangle-shaped, like an
arrow pointing,
showing me the way.
I leave them
nestled into the dirt
in case these directions
were meant for
some other walker.
Every stone on my path
triangle-shaped, like an
arrow pointing,
showing me the way.
I leave them
nestled into the dirt
in case these directions
were meant for
some other walker.
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 Poetry Practice
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
