Place

There is a place called home, far away from Rome, from where we roam and return.

Season’s turning and the garden we seeded and grew this year is drawing near to close.  It gave of itself as a place of pleasure, work and leisure, medicine food and flowers, sitting with butterflies for hours, crooning bees, earth stained knees, and now it’s going to seed. Continue reading

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Pulplit

 

Deep in the woods there are spaces surprisingly lively and light, nestled between the bases of big old trees and rocks that beckon, come sit a while and listen to our tales; these old mountain stones hold them stored deep in their green and red veined faces, once in a while they share them to the drumming of woodpecker’s beak drilling deep in the woods.

Deep in the woods it’s easy walking in springtime when the forest floor is free of fern and cohosh, the canopy above as yet unformed by leaves still in the teeniest of unfurling stages.

Deep in the woods there are surprising conversations taking place in nestled spaces, where rocks and trees gesture, welcome.

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