Sometimes I might buy an onion, or two, just to have out on the counter-top.
The author is a poem and the poem is a blank page.
O! to the bee a clover in September : a sacristy
While driving a co-worker asks, if you could live for a thousand years, would you? No, I say, after a pause to make a right hand turn, I don’t learn lessons well enough to do it all over again, for that long… I would live in one moment of contentment, forever, though.
Coolness of this morning’s carpet, a moth flutters by the front door.
I divide myself, so I can punish myself, in order to create my Self.
My life is a portrait of states of mind.
Every night before I go to sleep I practice letting go, letting go of ego. Looking outside, looking outside of me. Slipped into dream.