Sometimes I want to shout about the words that come through me.  I worry about how to present them, publicize, get an agent, in a book, and worry that I’m not doing what is whispered to me, coaxing me, driving me to write.

But soft overcomes the most rigid.  Thus I surrender to this little gurgle of a brook each morning.  More to be revealed while I sit near this lilting stream of sweet nothings each early light (or dark) and be as open as possible for Her words.

There is a tiny sprout of a maple tree I spy through my window, huddled at the edge of the forest.  The leaves of the season are bright yellow surrounded by dark corners, animal dens, blackberry, firs and bushes.  She just smiles in her soft glory and waves.