
Spring arrives and the woods are damp, rich, earthy. You can smell it and almost taste it and certainly feel it—hopefulness.

on a walk,
I take a camera and shoot pink petals
and tiny buds through an old iron fence,
my mind blank,
and somnambulant


I forget everything, and yet at the same time, I forget nothing

on a morning in May: tiny pellets of snow falling on tender grass and purple violets

right now: is it that everything matters, or is it that nothing matters?