Posted in Musings, Poetry


I love the idea of making meaning. Procuring symbols to represent my time here on earth. So I arrange favorite pieces in an alter space.

Music and rhythm touch an inner sanctum only I am privy too. No one, not even a trusted friend, can enter now. The notes descend the mountain and no echo returns.

Scents were like rain, or birds. They left and came back.

Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

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