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About This Author
A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!
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Little Things, Maybe
Little Things, Maybe
Gnarled, arthritic hands, callused,
and yet invincibly strong. Short,
stubby with burled knuckles.
fingers embedded with years of steel:
blackened fingerprints. Yet
they still wield drumsticks
from Wipeout to the Battle Hymn,
still caress with gentleness.
Silver-blue larkspur eyes
surrounded by laugh lines
that fan widely. He can see
beyond, beneath, through:
a deer in autumn woods
at a hundred yards or a tear fall
from a turned head. Eyes of steel
that can soften to liquid silk.
My dad always said you
could tell a lot about a man
by looking at his hands, in his eyes.
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