small pieces of dreams

Stories are emerging from my quiet like constellations. I am watching, wondering, enchanted. And so I searched my archives tonight for something old, half-forgotten, that I could share here instead of interrupting the charm of the stars, the stories taking on light.

I didn't find anything specific, only a lot of fragments from tales unwritten. I shall scatter a few tonight, along with a photograph for Kim Klassen's texture tuesday, and well wishes for you. I hope your day is as lovely as mine has been.

(The picture is processed with Kim's waterfront texture.)

I've come to believe this house is less wood than memory ...


I had seen him coming a long while, but still I said, as he stepped right up to me, "Oh, it's you."

He did not answer. He just took hold of my shoulders and kissed me. Determined, but gentle, almost like a considered monologue of all the things I had not allowed him to say, right on my mouth. And then he let me go and walked on along the path I had come.

Which meant I had to take his way, the long way, home.


A storm was blowing in from the sea. I had been watching it all afternoon, one eye on darkness while she washed dishes and clothes and the kitchen windows, waiting for poetry.


Books take you under the skin of life, and into all the layers of the wind. Once you've seen that, its so hard existing on the mundane surface. You've got to keep reading, to stay in the deep.