family
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The Boy
The boystretches across his bednaked;the day has not yet cooled,but the wind, though warm,evaporates the moisture from his arms and chest,and this is good. He always listens when the the wind speaks,sometimes inviting him to play,sometimes warning of danger,sometimes telling… Continue reading
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My Father the Artist
A number of years ago, I imagined what my father (deceased) might say to me about creativity. He was, among other things, a watercolor artist. This is what I wrote at the time: "Dirk, it was never easy for me… Continue reading