 |
| MAXIMIZE PAGE FOR VIEWING |
| Murmurs I love to hear wind come round the corner of my house. Finding old wood creaking gently- soothing softly, it murmurs as the frame braces for the next blast to come. Night will happen while I sleep lightly, so not to miss a single word my house has to say. |
| THE POET SPEAKS: I've received many comments on MURMURS. It seems to evoke memories of an old favorite house in those who read it. I am pleased to hear that for my intention was to do just that. The old house is now but a memory, but the poem never fails to return to me that cozy moment of the writing. |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
 |