little fires

        sometimes I’m quick to snuff it out sometimes I let it burn but there’s always that ash sticking to the soles of my shoes the gritty tracks follow me for days      

sacred space

             

calm before the storm

        the stillness is palpable as a snowstorm approaches I feel the same excitement as when I was young    

big red

      our clubhouse was in the hayloft of the old barn hot and stuffy in summer freezing cold in winter we listened to Beatle records over and over again on a dusty turntable    

vulnerable