The Morning Book 

There is a fog when the morning tugs.

I reclose my eyes

and lay with this bitter sweet smell. 

I lay here with the book that is my memory,

left opened by my dreams,

opened to where I’ve earmark,

to where I have gilded the pages,

where each smile is inked in red letters,

and all the notes she wrote in the margins remind me of her limerence. 

They say a man can never give the same love twice,

and that someday somone will light a fire inside of you that can not die.

“They” whoever they are, have never said a thing more true.

In the dew of morning hours,

in my daydreams,

and when twinkling stars brighten an otherwise dismal sky.

I love her,

and for the rest of my life I can not wait to love her,

I can not wait to live for the dream of every terrible pang in my heart.

Photo by Cal Quinn

Summary

Welcome to my blog. The format is pretty loose here, so one post might be a technical layout, and then a poem, photography tips, a tour update, or a life story.  It can read like an open diary at times.  Thanks for checking it out.