Creativity exists within constraints or it perishes. At the moment of their growing, at the moment of their giving shade, at the moment of their falling. Once upon a lively hour. There grew a sprightly flower. But before I can rightly say sprightly. The flower struggled daily and nightly. Trapped under the ground in a seed. It wanted only to be freed. So it pushed and sought for the top. To live with the other crop. But to no avail the flower did remain. To struggle until the next rain.

Sunday, February 27, 2011. Monday, February 21, 2011. She stepped among the coloring flowers. A bird bath, an old gnome, a boy. Brushed in strokes of green and brown,. She knelt to pick dandelions from the grass;. The yellow weeds staining young fingers,. She held death so loosely in her hands. Thursday, February 17, 2011. Is this blog dead? Or just suffering from the aftermath of the malicious attacker? Do you rememb.

Words are empty vessels into which we pour meaning. In the restless air, for it to begin, for something to begin, for there to be something else. For the power to rise, the courage to leave. The show is over, all is over? But where then is the hand, the helping hand.

As if through some forgotten fault. A rugged asbestos spire purports. This is the inauspicious bishopric. Internally, your landing gear regressed. And your wing-tips dimmed as gently. Dreaming elevators being lately unexercised. With inevitable time the creeping ivy awakens.