The Deep Rich Soil
I dug for you in the deep rich soil, my hands plunging further and further into the ground, into the past, searching for traces of your soul, only to find a decayed, unreadable letter.
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Cadence
Far, Far Away
The lights go down, I’m eleven once again, and it turns out time has decided to be my friend. For five minutes, late arrivals flout unspoken rules of punctuality and search in vain for seating. When it starts, it’s the same. It’s also different, if I stop to think about it, a thing I try
When I Was a Boy
and I saw someone walking down the street talking out loud, laughing and chattering to no one, I’d conclude them mad and give them a wide berth. Now such madness is the norm, and I’m the deviant. and I saw someone walking down the street eyes fixed apparently upon the palm of their hand I’d
An Aspen Tree
The aspen tree rises daintily A paper mache model in white Heart shaped leaves rattle A soft murmur in the breeze Its branches bird’s nest hold Nature’s little hi-rise for Its summer animal inabitants And in autumn its precious golden nuggets Catch fire against Blue gentle Colorado sky And in winter brave and strong Against
Remembrance
She makes me remember Craft and magic, Art and artistry. I am again Creator and created – Changed by the words I write; Changing those who read These idle thoughts about a girl from long ago Grown into strength, wisdom, And warm wit. *** Tracy Linder considers herself the proverbial “Jack of all trades, Master of
Consultants
They actually get paid for what they do, busily marking up giant sheets of Post-it and ripping them off to slap on the conveniently broad swathes of bland wall space. We, their captives, mostly play nice, vapid salvos hurled that add nothing much, maybe even depleting the imperiled supply of collective intelligence tidepooling here —