pathways

at the waterfront in hoboken

coneflower

summer's going . . .

crab apple blossom

yellow miniature daffodils

sandpipers

compacted

these lines traverse the wanderings of a soul.

--Richard Kempton

through the looking glass

the colours painted in my sky
are blurring into watery streams
that flow before my startled eyes
and vanish into heaven.

- Dante Wydhe

unfurling

from this past summer.

digging

it is so easy to lose the innocence of a child, and so hard to gain it back, no matter how often and how intensely we may wish to.

little boy blue

from our vacation in virginia beach.

winter's coming, which means I am well embroiled in school, and beginning to wish otherwise. the air is sinking closer and closer to freezing each night, and the days are growing increasingly cold.

living in cleveland for fifteen years planted a deep dislike for winter in me. in a way, I'm darkly attracted to the cold, the gloom, the frozen air, but when it's over, I always feel like I've just been saved from drowning.

winter is when my creativity resurfaces from its dormant summer state, pushes through my concentration, and disturbs my work on assigned projects. winter is when I write poetry, when new ideas for stories suddenly spring up and take hold of me until I can hardly think. winter is when my dreams come alive.

winter is a narrow line that I walk each year. it is treacherously easy for me to fall.

for now, though, I still feel fresh from summer, and the cold has not yet fully penetrated.