Progress

The familiar cold of a mid-November Sunday--
Atticus dutifully sniffs the path of his predecessor
as dried leaves scrape across the pavement
rattling the early quiet.

A frigid wind blurs my vision
as one foot falls in front of the other
ever forcing me forward.

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Latest Tangles...

Sometimes it's easier to focus through poetry... and sometimes the poems have no words. 😊💜 Choose to be happy...