low fog over the Berkshires
jet contrail dissolves
above me,
above the lake
and the calling crows
crooked pine
at the entrance
to the yoga retreat—
a signboard without the complications of alphabet
Look, it says—our paths
are alike
not straight
but ever towards
Light.
there's a poem in every day
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
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: Poems by Mary Kendall
A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
Puff Of Smoke Poems 