We tweak and bend,
slipping down one dark alley and up another
striving to reach the light hidden just beyond us.

The light we will never see.

The Box

The hermit sleeps in a cave with his only possession, a small box. When he opens it each morning, he is always happy to find it empty.

One day, a passing pilgrim shows interest in the box and the hermit, pleased to be relieved of this last burden, gives it to him.

My box is not empty. It holds the envy I feel for the hermit.

Sunday Morning

January’s cold blankets the manse and its denizens. We fear the possibility of freezing rain capable of bringing down power lines and the ensueing discomfort.

With noses pressed on the windowpane, we watch the gathering gloom. I for signs of precipitation and the dog for the other enemy, the squirrel.