Windflowers

I tire of me do you tire of you?  All the plans to improve and refine feel like feather chisels on rock.  The ‘me’ remains unchanged.  Stubb...

I contemplate my life, my purpose. The floor is covered in pieces of dirt.  Life sneaks through our fingers and drops its debris everywhere....

 My Mum is a custodian of epic proportions.  Things from decades even 50 years ago, of worth, are carefully stored.  In her garage, there ar...

Transmutation calls  not  for a cloak to hide distress nor an icy barrier to protect.  Not even splendid hermit-li...

The Báb, who was born almost 200 years ago in Iran, rose stellar-like with brilliance above the darkness of a corrupt world. ...