Welcome to my woodfire,this virtual hearth, with the magic humming and the tea brewing and the books spilling over. That music in the background, that's my Honey playing his guitar, or it could be Addie Bell, my little mountain dulcimer or the rain on a tin roof, or the windriver singing way up high. Here in the hills, there's music everywhere you give a listen. So, sit a spell and lets listen together.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Small Stone -- January 10
My raging is silent as a smile. I wonder what becomes of things left too long in a snowless January, left too long in the sun. These streets echo with forgotten footsteps. Rows of houses sleep with their doors closed. This is how the town fares.
"Raging as silent as a smile' one so different from the other - unless the smile hides the rage. The mystery of "forgotten footsteps" and "closed doors" intrigues: a poem that raises questions.
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"Raging as silent as a smile' one so different from the other - unless the smile hides the rage. The mystery of "forgotten footsteps" and "closed doors" intrigues: a poem that raises questions.
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