Refuge

To it, my mere line, so rarely an avenue. 

Always ahead, the door.

Never entirely closed.

Paused

I will be going, says the chill rain. When the light turns, it will be Spring. 

This entry is from April 11 2016. I forgot to post it. But please note, the light did turn!

Lot's wife

I've looked back so many times. Into a blur of photographs, into an old house. Crowds of loves and selves I have not been able to bring along! How many more times will I have to leave? The present is a shore for refugees.