“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
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We don't give ourselves enough credit for adapting but praise our Evolution as the golden thumb. There is a sweet spot- contentment tha...
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A year ago this May, in fact, upon this same very grey day- something came over me I found could say, in no other way but to portray, ...
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Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
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Where does one begin to unpack the suitcase of grief? While it may be nice to throw it all away, or donate these shreds, I find it i...

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