I cannot hold the water,
though my hand is wet.
I lift it to my mouth,
but cannot drink.
If I am breathing,
I cannot tell you how.
What must » Explore the rest...
Far from the shorn lawn
that scratches my back
July-born breezes brushing
cool upon my cheek
her catholic life
in cloistered circle
of the ones who know her
as sister » Explore the rest...
Christmas flirted for the 67th time
with the winter of my 68th year,
skirting just ahead of my birthday,
and felt much the way an old friend
who has changed