It rains, pours, showers, hails, gusts, gales, it rains.
The oceans tides are high and fierce. Jewels lie bare, sea-drift shores.
The moss covered winter trees lean heavy to the side, soil is mud, hold on great friend, go deep.
The little sprouts peek out, daffodils wave in the wet winds, chickweed and dandelion live strong.
My back aches, old chair, soft bed, indoor lighting.
Accounting for my past year to strangers of authority is an annoyance.
I was fooling myself again. Trust lost. Lessons learned, relearned.
Gratitude is for bliss-ninnies, Respect is my thing.
Quiet feeds my creative spirit.
Nature feeds my creative spirit.
Travel feeds my creative spirit.
Work feeds my creative spirit.
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