Is this the winter of our love?
Oh, how I ponder and yearn its spring.
That meeting by chance,
the fleeting glance,
the warmth of touch on skin.
This is a room for work written slowly and left to stand.
Poems arrive here as they’re finished. Stories gather over time. A novel is being written in public, one chapter at a time.
Some of the writing remains open. Some is kept together, for those who wish to read along.