From my living room, Asher, our one year old son, balances against the backrest of thevdark, mahogany handcrafted Italian wing chair. The bright white silk fabric displaying golden Fabergé eggs and the carefree stains of primary colours from errant window markers and dripping freezees that rests against the living room window.
AshersTree.html
Asher is strapped in the back carrier. He drifts over my shoulders, his head, drunk with sleep, falls forward, resting and then jerking suddenly within the curved arch between the back of my head and the end of my neck. “It’s too early sweetie. It’s not time yet.”
Escape-To-The-Forest.html
First Love - Fifteen years old. Late August. The end of high school’s first summer.
The evening sun prepares to scurry away beneath the darkling clouds. In the distance, thunder rings through the sky, it tiptoes in succession, like fingers dancing across a piano.
Wild-Horses.html
At their Grandmother’s home, one late afternoon, we gingerly reverse from the dock in a pontoon boat, and make our way out of the alcove and into the lake.
Dragonfly.html
Diary - I dreamt about you last night.Your hazel hair. Your apricot lips. We talked cordially...
Dreaming-Of-You.html
Poem - Ophelia's True Love
Floating-(Ophelia).html
Poem - Two forlorn lovers mulberry hue escaping
Doomsday-Love.html