Be sure to click on this painting for a larger view…
Under the bridge the water moves, one thick rolling tongue.
In this metal cavern of rivets and last night’s campfire
cigarette butts and can top
There is no time.
Who slept here? This warm fire. We share this space.
and this stranger
toasting beenie weenies
Round rocks love up the underside of my feet
shocked by cold water
scratched by rose bushes.
When. they. bloom.
god, when they bloom.
There’s nothing here but space and the sound of water – this constant reminder of how everything keeps moving
at its own pace
in its own time
passing by someone’s last night beer, some warm coals,
and my morning butterflies.