Through Winter Windows

Trace of footfalls
pierce glistening white,
tokens of travellers.
Bygone origins,
trivial destinations.
Blinding reflections as
icy air sneaks through
unseen fissures.
Warmth beckons
and beauty is abandoned.

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Whispers

Faded pages whisper of the woman who bore me. They whisper her heart, her dreams, her cares. I read and strain and caress the whispers.

Travel Nocturn

In my place between wake and slumber exists a platform, a waiting spot for the dream train. Weathered wood planks roughened by time and elements joined by rust crusted square spikes. Wind whispering, stars shining, no covering in sight. Ancient iron tracks stretch from horizon to beyond beckoning the dream train. On a night my mind’s self reposes there, labors, worries, and joys jumbled in thought until I board the dream train.

Nana's Pen

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