Where did the color go?
I too feel washed something other than clean, not rinsed and wrung either. Just a winter wan.
If I kick about my ankles, time is not spooled like silk. Rather it is turning around me as a cotton batt tornado.
Silent and the birds have stopped singing as if I were in the eye.
Luckily there is touch. And texture.
Running my fingers over a bit of bark or a gold-rimmed coffee cup heats the tips with sparks of blue, green, gold…
I lean towards the warmth and am pulled forward into the ticking minutes…
…and further down the wide if barren path…
…slow as breathing towards something resembling Spring.
Poetry, Heather, the most beautiful poetry…
xoxo, Chris
I couldn't agree with you more, Lulu. We have to keep the peepers open!
PS. What a lovely profile pic.
No matter what the season, there is always something beautiful to see. Sometimes the challenge is seeing!
Ah, thank you Jackie. The grass is always greener but I think you are too kind!
Oh Heather only you could turn the grayest of days into beautiful poetry! I sit here in the middle of the Pacific surrounded by striking tropical colors and find myself wistfully thinking of taking a slow stroll down that delightfully empty road you tempted me with in your photos. . .