The Bougainvillea flowers are appropriately turned out this day almost in harmony with the Zoroastrian teen
who won’t need that long awaited kidney any more and as if to empathize with the blanched gums of the three
week old Shih Tzu, smuggled in from a Bangkok puppy mill with a fatal parvoviral infection.
My path home is lined with silk-cotton trees bursting with offerings of floss. They caress my cheek ever so
gently. Fixing myself a cuppa, I am greeted by the sight of a young dove gazing back benignly at my
six-month-old kitten. Their hearts virtually touch across the windowsill netting. Truce in a time of rain.
Why is it so difficult for us to find peace?
I pick up where I left off this morning. A kaleidoscope of white. The color of writer’s block.
the charcoal strokes
of a kite’s wings