November rolls in on the heels of San Francisco's Indian Summer with its long shadows, crisp apples breezes and nutmeg insistance. It is when all sprouting intents and purposes will be gathered and long suffered notions are ripe for the picking.
And when we remember...
30 Poems will be harvested this season - the fruit - my words - unedited, sometimes rushed, often forced and just maybe, if the muse is kind, beautiful....
Join me on my poetic exploration of all that is authentic by acknowledging three simple realities:
nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect
(Feedback is welcome, kindness is appreciated)
Be sure to wander over to my fellow traveler's harvest
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