Her secret refuge, at childhood’s keen edge, flirting with grace on the rim. Advertisements
To revel in awe, just cause for breathing deep, slow, breadth taking you in. (Photo by Anne Brigman)
Sometimes, the inner life of the Scarecrow is modeled on a park bench, where a glyphic repose of crowblack trees levels his brood to mortal dismay in a wizardless world. (Photo by Diane Arbus)
She, full of secret pines, shadow-limbed beneath a pale disc of winter sun, waltzing solo in snow-caked hills, blood-red quill tucked behind her left ear, just in case the urge to climb spires and trace spheres via a fierce run … Continue reading
I was there, nameless gluttony of charged particles, when the dream-trees were felled by alabaster whorls of lightning. From the siege I salvaged a charred branch, which became my staff, my walking stick, and I began to wander in search … Continue reading
Upon first snow’s feathery kissing of bare limbs, interlocked, we will know ourselves as Nature, never truly apart, the sheer force of dream on white too powerful to sever.
Limbs by autumn light, skeleton jig in the round– Curtain rises, falls.
