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Natureexpand_moreLoving you is every bit as fine as coming over a hill into the sun.
It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.
Photo portraits, landscapes, and world scenes by Sandra Lloyd.
I see now that motherhood is not required to speak a mother tongue.
I’m tired of the song the rain sings in June, the chorus of hope.
I lean I stumble toward you hoping you’ve not turned away yet.
The windshield’s dirty, the squirter stuff’s all gone, so we drive on.
Show me your darkness, your nothing-to-see and everything to touch.
Forgive me, please, for continuing to believe that roses are beautiful.
Oar blades, vast swirls of cirrus at dawn. The dead move within us.
To me, the very point of cooking is to wildly praise what’s wild.
Something basks and gathers in the dark parts of an open ear.
Of what use, other than to the butterfly, are a butterfly’s wings?
Before giant pandas earn heir name, they cub pinkly and mewling.
We’ve seen a lot of smaller ranches bought up by outside money.
A heart takes precautions, withholds warmth, but it’s mistaken.
I wound through the Gothic castle buildings in the university.
Better to be a bird without altitude. Or to get out of the game early.
Our crowns are made of dead hair and get swept out with the trash.
She does not know within a decade she will unload a slug into her mouth.
I eat what’s in front of me, as all great men do. Some wouldn’t, but I do.
I have tried and failed to renew my vows to real trees whom I love.
Because grass sprouts from the stump’s rings like tiny soldiers.
I halt and watch a monk, under plum boughs, sweeping flitting shreds.
Pale dust clung to their skin like the lime he had thrown on the dead.
I played a game I called ocean, resisted my need for air.
Those trees—each an epoch with its origin and history, rising into night.
Burly Viking raiders are standing in the coffee line, sharing pickles.
Isn’t it nice to think tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes yet?
As far as I was concerned you need never have been my father.
