I have always wanted to write. It has been a desire – compulsion – since early school. My life has passed and I haven’t – begun to write. The passing is still to come. This on a cool emerald morning, sparkling with the remnants of the night’s storm, in near quiet of the garden, the silence flecked with awakening murmurs of hidden birds, is my first attempt.
Forgive me my prose; it is the way I think and beneath that the way I see and deeper, the way I feel.
Like clouds that visit overhead and pass on to other places, I hope that my words find friendly eyes in places beyond my garden and like the clouds are enjoyed in their passing through your life.

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