It was just my imagination

Sometimes sitting still, disappearing, I recall the experience of Time as a child.

In  the quiet living room drinking a cup of coffee before the start of a busy day I remember; I wanted to be liked, win the race, be a superhero and Lipton soup salesman like my dad. Nothing was crucial. But I could drown in the shower or die in the dark. Something was always under the bed. I believed in God and my parents and that everything would be alright. It was just my imagination.

And I was not responsible.





Morning path

Thinking of a woman folding her map and looking up,

stretching a leg, stepping on a stone; I stop behind the dog.

Meet the eyes of a young Whitetail buck standing in sun-spotted shadow.


All week I’ve recalled a shallow forest pond.

Three inches deep. Sky and canopy reflected.

A bed of sand and pebbles. Some kind of wordless whisper.


How do we know which moments are sacred and which are mundane?