She sits, knees down,
In practiced posture.

Grounded and calm.

Her curled fingers
Rest on her thighs.

Precise.
Impervious.
Immovable.
Her own.


In her smile,
A wisp on the wings
Slowly unfurls,
In a whirl
Of wise and winding

Mischief.


As honey'd tones
Roll from her maw,
I am humbled.
Hanging.
Enchanted.
Enthralled.

Lucky to be involved.


And in her every word
There is a piece of her
Unseen,
Unheard,
But no less present.

Pure effervescence.

On all terms,
In her way,
Effortless
And pleasant.


Purposeful, she;
Spinner of tales.

i

why do i write?
to remember
not to forget
that is a fear

as one ages..
one thing leads to
another-
music helps..

and not-
to be fixed
or crucified
to the moment..

somewhere between
young and old
now and then
writing

is fun..
but kind of painful
sometimes
interesting

sometimes not
sometimes there is hope
and ambition
love and hate..

ii

i like to write
drink tea
and sing..

as old as man
brave
in my cave..