poetry
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“Beautiful soared into my life, like a cage-free chicken, wild and fascinating and somewhat ridiculous. Beauty was the elegant figure eights of a tire swing, inviting and dangerous. It was a challenge, strewn with homemade mud and armed with carved tree bark. Beauty was losing, your breath, your reservations, and your humility. Beauty was not
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I don’t know how to write about missing you. Rain falls from the mists of heaven, slinking through the air, refusing to gaze upon the ground. All the while the earth rises towards the mist without hope of reaching the rays shining upon it. We live in-between these places of ground and air. Hoping to
Carmen Paquette 