Retirement has finally taken up residence in my mind and heart. As a result, I have closed down this website.
Thank you for visiting. May you travel well, accompanied by the warmth of friendship and a good poem or two.
The Art of Fugue, VII So it begins. Silence gathers, looks up, and becomes a voice: the thrum, the distillate, we call a soul. Impossible translation, for the breath that moves in you is wind, the wind that cherishes the trees and cools the stars. You are, you are not, nothing, shaped by what you love. The echo of what's left when everything has been let go.