by Tim Girvin | Aug 21, 2004 | Writings
That time that I savor, far before dawn, no sense of light — just this: a long, winding sheet of silk is being drawn, slowly, winding cloth, over the dead grasses and stones, trailed round the branches — it’s whispering a call to fulsome sense. And...
by Tim Girvin | Aug 2, 2004 | Writings
In my hand, I’ve cut flowers, and they are already passing, in their blossoming — some, have stayed, others flutter, incarnadine, to the green weavings, of the grass. A hummingbird comes, studying the tremor, of just my hand, in holding these. And begins...
