A rowboat is a useful thing, to get from a to b, but should you dream you are stranded with only one oar, in a
A hammer is a driving thing, as in driving home a point – a moniker my husband bear’s to depict his tenacious fight. There’s hammer
A teacup is a social thing – fits neatly in matching saucer, requires raising of pinky finger, prescribed by social etiquette. Should it break or,
A simple shoebox, repurposed with plastered images of dreams – paper affirmations of aspirations – shelved and forgotten, its contents snapshots, faded and torn, remnants
Talk to me of horses, the young man says, thin locks of blonde matted on a sweaty brow, flashes of blue that fade as eyes
It’s Monday again – days passing through my hands like sand, no receptacle in which to catch the granules – why this sense of urgency?