“I prefer winter . . . when you feel the bone structure of the landscape -
the loneliness of it . . . . Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.”
Hush time, time to draw a breath . . .
A time to watch white flakes falling, whispers of wind slipping
between pine branches . . .
A time for firelight, memories and hope
for the days ahead . . .
Small stitches, humble shreds of fabric
weaving thoughts and sighs,
a rosary of regrets.