And here, memories are traded. At every solstice, and at every equinox.
Bonsai, in a manner of speaking.We were talking about the definition of a poem. Friday, late afternoon, Sir Neil lecturing (or rather, being a very engrossing half of the conversation; the other half comprised of our nods and smiles and adoring stares) and the four year old... more
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||




Ha! Found you, Incredibly Pretty Sit-In Girl!