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    hills to climb

    "hills to climb"     A figure counted once,standing where the verge breaks open.Word intact, meaning thinned,a marker left upright by habit alone.   Grass leans in, listening.Its tilt becomes direction,though the ground beneath itslides in its own quiet argument.   Your craft appears sideways—a pattern...

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    • Nice.
      I was told ages ago that it’s a flaw in writing to give inanimate things the ability to do conscious things, like the grass leaning to listen, as if it knew to.
      Yet, I argued that in creative writing, comes a creative freedom to paint things in a different light. To give it that “as if”.
      That’s what makes it more interesting and even unpredictable.
      Well done poem here. I truly enjoyed it.

      • Took out the “as if” during the edit to tighten the line. It’s like jumping into coloured chalk floor paintings and let Mary Poppins take care of the rest. And yes, I was told that too. But then again poetic licence, freedom of speech and creative expression all say otherwise. Thanks for your much valued visit. Truly grateful for the word you left here as well. 🙏🕊️

    • Thank you, dear Honoria, for keeping that energy in transfer-flow. Now, even after the poem has rested from its reading a work it began continues on. Most appreciatively, K.

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    our old stretch

    We gather with the year still warmfrom all the hands that shaped it,passing cups across the tableas if the work might start againthe moment someone nods,each of us carrying this stretch of our yearin pockets, boots, and notebooks.A creak...

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    winters drift

    A window holds its breathas the day thins to a pale wash.Frost gathers at the corners,soft as dust. Someone walks past,coat brushing the airand sending in a brief drift of coldthat sharpens a thoughtthe way cold sometimes does—clean, immediate,quietly sure...

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    winter palette

    “winter palette"Winter leans inwith a painter’s restraint,lifting soft bluesfrom the frost’s first breath,letting tree‑shadows sketchsilver across the ground.Branches rise like quiet script,each stroke a reminderthat pared‑back beautyasks only to be seen..

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