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The crossroads of poetry, writing, and art. And the sweet breeze sifts through the night. Two shadows crossed in starlight. Sing to memories cast upon your eyes. Like the bridge clothed in dust. Ethereally monumental, as always.

Writing is like breathing for me. A small and precious life. Plog, the enterprising snail. Lost in a warm forest. Lucy leaps into the unknown. What lives in the bush. The beauty and the silence. Did you see them? A valentine for a cooling world. When the morning breeze blows. The joy of self mockery. A limerick I made up is a poem, right? I think my l.