At best, the face emerging was uncertain. This was another desperate attempt at watercolor. In the latest pass I had added too much water and it puddled near the left cheek, and suddenly ran wild, obscuring one eye.

It was so close to Winter, with trees mostly bare and morning frost common. And warm days were becoming rare and cooled early. Pumpkins were still laid about, conspicuous but comforting. It must have been their color, so intense, in a landscape that was rapidly browning.

Sometimes, actually often, there are thoughts that seem to occupy more than their share of my mind. So, I write them down. Let them loose. That’s how poetry comes to be. It’s the bridge between here and that other place we can’t aptly name.

I walked out into a cooler air this morning. It was as if someone had finally found the switch to turn down the awful heat of the last month or so. I stood there in relief and took the deepest breath I had taken all summer.

Another Winter morning in this desert and clouds gather again to await the sun and the ever changing color of its brush.

This year the monsoons have been very kind. Abundance is everywhere. Overflowing actually. It's loud and wild.

The only painting I have done in the last week is some house painting.

I REMEMBER THINGS. Small things. Moments memorized, lightly carried like tiny treasures across time.