cosmic stew
goulash for you
sometimes ghoulish
most assuredly true
so Me-times imbue
quite a flawless fondue

Feather drifts in the paddock mist,
catches on a fence where the crow keeps watch,
slips past thistle and shadow‑fox,
rests by the lantern in the council’s glow —
and somewhere beyond the hill,
a glint waits for the hand that knows the way back.




.

Fog writes you in,
hair a shifting font,
clothes, a quiet hearth —
the street braids itself around you.





.

Hair like weather,
clothes like a hearth —
I hold the street open
and let its poems walk past.





.