Plowing snow.
Wind blowing.
Snow falling.
Birds singing.
Sun shining.
Air gusting.
Fan blowing.
TV Blaring.
Body carving its space.
Thoughts roaming.
Noting.
Tub over-flowing.
Daffodils hiding, under the snow.
There’s the sound of a train, in the distance.
Morning fog,
veiled over the trees of the forest,
like a sheer silky sheet.
White,
vaguely opaque,
the sun glares through your weave.
The insistent caw of the crow,
alongside the ticking clock,
subsides.
Expression was made.
Need fulfilled.
Rays of the sun
pour into my body
from the top of my head
down to my toes
up to my waist,
filling the spaces of my inner core
seeping into my veins
like a new day
under a blue sky.
Wind blowing
eaves creaking
walking
working
smoking
feeling
writing
mourning
crying
grieving
always
changing
in a moment
of
time…
Morning breaking,
People waking,
Crows cawing,
Clock ticking.
Dog barking,
Whistle blowing,
Water dripping.
Coffee brewing,
Truck stopping,
Brakes squeaking,
Stopping at nothing.
GRB TiffanyCreek
…on green snow-laden bough. Quiet, windless, delicate, without caring who’s around.
Without hearing my thoughts, or worries. Without making a sound.
GRB
I remember how the traffic was,
And wasn’t.
How the hills, and mountains were visible,
in the setting sun.
I recall eyes, peering out large windows,
through empty, erect easels,
waiting for creativity to run.
All of this,
With the smell of spring,
I remember January,
Some.
TiffanyCreek
Green is my favorite color.
Red is my favorite color.
I like blue, too.
Give me the colors of the rainbow,
To shine on you!
TiffanyCreek
Summer House, just you and me.
We’ll live in bliss
among trees.
And there in love,
we’ll be.
On Tiffany Creek 