Outside,
the soft rain
leaves the flowers
bowed low.
Inside,
words with
such tenderness.
Pick me up to the quick
Once again,
my wrinkled hands have fire.
The deep river,
no longer asks for a kiss.
A clear road ahead
A Wandering Poet
As I walk around I like to record what I experience. Through poetry, ideas and thoughts I hope I can share some of these experiences with you.
A Wandering Poet 