toppling over each other,


into each other;

Falling over me, and into me,

lightness and dark,

all autumn-y and



How green it all is again. And tender. We are placed once again in the arms of abundance and generosity. Of softness and re-growth. There is a deep blooming of souls everywhere.

The idea of an idea.

I like ideas.

I love ideas.

So often, ideas, as they rise and froth and spill, saturating every nerve, one’s very core with their blood, with their dreams and their promises are better than their actuality.

They make one tingle and gush and run around a bit in exquisite frenzy.


Dreams on the verge.

As fragile and luminous as a hand blown glass shot through with skeins of colour. Just as unique.

A thrilling what if and will be.


They make my world go round.

The window in the east caught fire; pure gold
licked the frame and the walls; while outside,
shapes peeled away from each other; timber
and bramble; and the light burned a path through
the silent woods until a warbler cleared his throat
looking for the right note to pursue, perhaps
wondering, which tone would best bring in the day.