Some poems seem birthed in storms and darkness, from tears and pain. Yet others from the dance between the sunset and the slowly rising moon. Do we dare risk the night like the caterpillar that trusts to fate and nature, its dark cocoon? Some mornings the mist still lingers and I wonder if you're still there in your spinning transformation, a distant silhouette framed against a sultry summer sky. I prefer the spring to summer, its voice breathing poems into my heart, born like birds high above the forest.
Wings Over Waters 