Lyrical breezes swirl over a Van Gogh landscape, unsure how to define the words, “ Give him your marrow.” My frustrations were vented and flew up to the sky like a bright yellow balloon, happy and eager to be heard by the clouds. Then…..well, they popped, of course, their remains falling imperceptibly to choke the natural world. My smile must be put on a leash and dragged into work sometimes. If walls could talk, I think they’d say, “She tries to be useful, but finds her presence redundant.”
Miniature Moon 