Just me

Those small feelings, they surface quietly. Aloneness, but not loneliness. I make my way to the house and sip on some tea. Perhaps play something baroque, just audibly. There’s never anyone else but me. Can anything truly be shared? I walk thru the woods, speak to the plants and trees. This is me. Just me.

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Spring

The oak’s bare limbs scatter the early Spring light onto tender greens. The lichen observes the rabbit, and waits. And the trees listen. The last chilly breeze means nothing to the wing of the robin. Poised, she sings.  

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