Each shrine of my art is dedicated to the muse which is you. And each rung of my dreams spools and hinges on your existence. I only started to breathe real air when you stood still to breathe next to me-- perhaps the first to just stand there doing nothing, saying nothing, but just there … Continue reading My Love
My eldest son, when he was not quite two, loved crushing the daisies that grow like dandelions in coastal Oregon. He'd yank them up, then crush them with a satisfied "Doh!" Yeah, probably the cutest thing on the whole dang planet. But, then again, I'm his mother. Biased to the extreme. Yet, at the same … Continue reading Remember to Crush the Daisies
Author T.S. Lowe 