inner art journal

Even Goya’s portraits

are less intriguing than faces

of frost on my window.

A snowflake

falls in my surprised eyes

…all is black.

What discus player

threw a tangerine moon on

top of Main Street?

The morning mist roams

back and forth like a

voiceless wanderer.

What does this cat think

strumming his tail with such ease

to fugues of Bach?