winter shadows on the table in the hall

 

 

 

 

I hear the quiet
in the dark

and smell the warm sunlight
dancing across the wall

I see the crack in the jar
where the cover doesn’t quite fit

I feel the chip in the wall
in the shape of a ragged heart

I taste the offering of sweetness
waiting on the table

 

I think

this is me

my self portrait

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ghosts of summer’s past

 

 

 

 

 

“..the lawn
Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return
Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn..”

T.S. ELIOT

(excerpt from To Walter de la Mare)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

acceptance

 

 

 

 

 

 

if wrinkles were flowers

we’d all welcome them

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

lunch with friends