the power house rears its head again,
pouring images down
like rain.
while gavin bryars plays
on and on
repeated.

look at each gentle place,
to keep in a pocket
of love,for that rainy
day, you do not go.

maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing.          count them carefully, one side then the other.it is all a pattern, that keeps us safely,        moves us
onward.

as i rose,

a pink mist descended.

it was actually already there,

i like the sound of the action here.

i thought the window misted,

my glassses steamed,

walked room to room,

and from the windows saw,

the softest steam morning

on the mountain,

through the trees.

the promise of another

day in wonderland.

:: tides are higher now, flooding the paths. he walked the mud, bringing the footsteps back to us ::

life goes on
the mark remains

it was remarked that there is no hurry
that we have the rest of the winter

becomes part of the
pattern
a mark on the horizon

could change it for another yet it has become
a mantra

a pause like in breathing