Grandfather’s roses.. My grandfather told me often. We must be like the rose. She sleeps the complete Winter and rebirth yearly stronger and more beautiful. In the hard days of Winter, she is… Continue reading
The wisp/ the kiss, the memory. Youth flies away. A Chapter by Coyote Poetry Chapter two. … Continue reading
The wisp/the kiss, the memory. The Long Island ice tea. A Chapter by Coyote Poetry A new series of short poetry. Part one. The wisp/ the kiss,… Continue reading