by Rebecca Cavender | intuitive poetry, poetry
The dawn of winter spreads its long light-wings to the aching meadow, illuminating Frost’s kiss —a coy remnant from last night. You think Summer’s grasses are now stoic, silent with cold: But they linger, blushing frozen white, renewed with glistening diamonds of...
by Rebecca Cavender | writing
These mountains and this river speak to the spirit of my blood. It’s not my place of birth, but I feel the songs this place sings: The songs that trill and echo on the tip of the ridge, then bellow—the drum beat of Maa—in swells of flowing water. Eagle cries as she...
