It is that time of year. Short days nestled in tight darkness that sparkles with holiday lights and the reflections on the wet pavement. Everyone rushing around like Santa's Elves to the next cheerful obligation or ugly sweater situation.
I find myself lost in the crowds, lost in thought and lost in the melancholy I have grown to expect this time of year. Yet I have not taken poetic refuge to stave off the sullen mood that scarves my face - my words strewn about the floor like misfit toys that I trip over.
So instead I will give space to these precious little ones. Let them play on the page. Perhaps here they will be the good company I long for.
Please join me on my winter writing adventures
An exploration of all that is authentic by acknowledging three simple realities:
nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect
