The Mountain Inn

The inn seemed precariously placed upon the steep face of the mountain, held in place by a few well-placed beams and a lattice of weather-worn wood. To hear the building creak in the middle of the night was to quietly wonder if this was the day it was to fall into the valley below. Sitting … Continue reading The Mountain Inn


The pen hovers still

The pen hovers still,Frozen like midwinter thoughts.While ink slowly dries. How did I write, then,In those days before you came,Bringing me such joy?Now that you are gone from me,My shattered art weeps such words. Joy taught me the skills,That gives life to hollow thought,Arranged in sad forms.