Dust Me In Cinnamon
Exuvia
Change is never clean.
Something always cracks—
in the world,
in the light,
in us.
Exuvia — from the Latin for “things stripped away.”
She
Crows in the Wheat
Storm Warning
Unbuttoned
Persimmon Moon
The persimmon moon climbs slow, sweet with fire…
A small poem of autumn stillness, where even the breath waits.
Flowers, Roadside
Wildflowers, Roadside
—
They bloom where nothing should, holding flame against the grind of days.
A reminder that love, too, survives without permission.
Paper Wings
Some memories fold themselves into silence,
others take flight in small, fragile ways.
This one is for my nan.
Infinite
I have carried both halves for all these years.
What would you do with a love that never ended?
days of stone 