Nov30 rainy afternoon— reading Mary Oliver to rout my sorrow Nov29 After Thanksgiving the willow lightens its load, shrugging off more leaves. Nov28 Walking through the woods on Thanksgiving afternoon— this is feast enough. Nov27 When I write poems, blackbirds fly from my fingers, wrens leak from my eyes. Nov26 Some mornings are hard, as hard as ice on a pond at forty below. Nov25 On the mountain path I seek a place to shelter— autumn thunderstorm. Nov24 Prophet at my door, have you a stone in your throat, or is that a crow? Nov23 An empty wheelchair— a feral cat settles down to nap in the seat. Nov22 Nothing more remains of the dreams I once held dear— ashes in my hand. Nov21 We exchange small talk, the woman downstairs and I, as she keeps sweeping. Post navigation ← Older posts Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy Follow Following Mark M. Redfearn Join 479 other followers Sign me up Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now. Mark M. Redfearn Customize Follow Following Sign up Log in Report this content View site in Reader Manage subscriptions Collapse this bar Loading Comments... Write a Comment... Email (Required) Name (Required) Website
Nov29 After Thanksgiving the willow lightens its load, shrugging off more leaves. Nov28 Walking through the woods on Thanksgiving afternoon— this is feast enough. Nov27 When I write poems, blackbirds fly from my fingers, wrens leak from my eyes. Nov26 Some mornings are hard, as hard as ice on a pond at forty below. Nov25 On the mountain path I seek a place to shelter— autumn thunderstorm. Nov24 Prophet at my door, have you a stone in your throat, or is that a crow? Nov23 An empty wheelchair— a feral cat settles down to nap in the seat. Nov22 Nothing more remains of the dreams I once held dear— ashes in my hand. Nov21 We exchange small talk, the woman downstairs and I, as she keeps sweeping. Post navigation ← Older posts Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy Follow Following Mark M. Redfearn Join 479 other followers Sign me up Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now. Mark M. Redfearn Customize Follow Following Sign up Log in Report this content View site in Reader Manage subscriptions Collapse this bar Loading Comments... Write a Comment... Email (Required) Name (Required) Website
Nov28 Walking through the woods on Thanksgiving afternoon— this is feast enough. Nov27 When I write poems, blackbirds fly from my fingers, wrens leak from my eyes. Nov26 Some mornings are hard, as hard as ice on a pond at forty below. Nov25 On the mountain path I seek a place to shelter— autumn thunderstorm. Nov24 Prophet at my door, have you a stone in your throat, or is that a crow? Nov23 An empty wheelchair— a feral cat settles down to nap in the seat. Nov22 Nothing more remains of the dreams I once held dear— ashes in my hand. Nov21 We exchange small talk, the woman downstairs and I, as she keeps sweeping. Post navigation ← Older posts Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy Follow Following Mark M. Redfearn Join 479 other followers Sign me up Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now. Mark M. Redfearn Customize Follow Following Sign up Log in Report this content View site in Reader Manage subscriptions Collapse this bar Loading Comments... Write a Comment... Email (Required) Name (Required) Website
Nov27 When I write poems, blackbirds fly from my fingers, wrens leak from my eyes. Nov26 Some mornings are hard, as hard as ice on a pond at forty below. Nov25 On the mountain path I seek a place to shelter— autumn thunderstorm. Nov24 Prophet at my door, have you a stone in your throat, or is that a crow? Nov23 An empty wheelchair— a feral cat settles down to nap in the seat. Nov22 Nothing more remains of the dreams I once held dear— ashes in my hand. Nov21 We exchange small talk, the woman downstairs and I, as she keeps sweeping. Post navigation ← Older posts Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy Follow Following Mark M. Redfearn Join 479 other followers Sign me up Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now. Mark M. Redfearn Customize Follow Following Sign up Log in Report this content View site in Reader Manage subscriptions Collapse this bar Loading Comments... Write a Comment... Email (Required) Name (Required) Website
Nov26 Some mornings are hard, as hard as ice on a pond at forty below. Nov25 On the mountain path I seek a place to shelter— autumn thunderstorm. Nov24 Prophet at my door, have you a stone in your throat, or is that a crow? Nov23 An empty wheelchair— a feral cat settles down to nap in the seat. Nov22 Nothing more remains of the dreams I once held dear— ashes in my hand. Nov21 We exchange small talk, the woman downstairs and I, as she keeps sweeping. Post navigation ← Older posts Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy Follow Following Mark M. Redfearn Join 479 other followers Sign me up Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now. Mark M. Redfearn Customize Follow Following Sign up Log in Report this content View site in Reader Manage subscriptions Collapse this bar Loading Comments... Write a Comment... Email (Required) Name (Required) Website
Nov25 On the mountain path I seek a place to shelter— autumn thunderstorm. Nov24 Prophet at my door, have you a stone in your throat, or is that a crow? Nov23 An empty wheelchair— a feral cat settles down to nap in the seat. Nov22 Nothing more remains of the dreams I once held dear— ashes in my hand. Nov21 We exchange small talk, the woman downstairs and I, as she keeps sweeping. Post navigation ← Older posts Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy Follow Following Mark M. Redfearn Join 479 other followers Sign me up Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now. Mark M. Redfearn Customize Follow Following Sign up Log in Report this content View site in Reader Manage subscriptions Collapse this bar Loading Comments... Write a Comment... Email (Required) Name (Required) Website
Nov24 Prophet at my door, have you a stone in your throat, or is that a crow? Nov23 An empty wheelchair— a feral cat settles down to nap in the seat. Nov22 Nothing more remains of the dreams I once held dear— ashes in my hand. Nov21 We exchange small talk, the woman downstairs and I, as she keeps sweeping. Post navigation ← Older posts Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy Follow Following Mark M. Redfearn Join 479 other followers Sign me up Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now. Mark M. Redfearn Customize Follow Following Sign up Log in Report this content View site in Reader Manage subscriptions Collapse this bar Loading Comments... Write a Comment... Email (Required) Name (Required) Website
Nov23 An empty wheelchair— a feral cat settles down to nap in the seat. Nov22 Nothing more remains of the dreams I once held dear— ashes in my hand. Nov21 We exchange small talk, the woman downstairs and I, as she keeps sweeping. Post navigation ← Older posts Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy Follow Following Mark M. Redfearn Join 479 other followers Sign me up Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now. Mark M. Redfearn Customize Follow Following Sign up Log in Report this content View site in Reader Manage subscriptions Collapse this bar Loading Comments... Write a Comment... Email (Required) Name (Required) Website
Nov22 Nothing more remains of the dreams I once held dear— ashes in my hand. Nov21 We exchange small talk, the woman downstairs and I, as she keeps sweeping. Post navigation ← Older posts
Nov21 We exchange small talk, the woman downstairs and I, as she keeps sweeping. Post navigation ← Older posts