an old writer and his words

  • SEASON OF OUR CONTENT

    It is Spring and I press my ear to still barren soil to hear the hypnotic thrum of sap reaching slowly skyward engine straining against gravity earthworms beginning their tunneling, marshaling armies for an exodus through ever night soil. I listen to the bud its velour face unfolding before the stillborn sky, a robin, breast…

    Lou Faber

  • PROGRESSION

    It is between the pushing away in the pulling back that it happens. It is there that the seasons progress, one to the next. Winter cedes to spring and is, ever reluctantly, replaced by summer. It is there, as well, that the leaf emerges from the bud and reaches into the sky. And feeling the…

    Lou Faber

  • MORNING, ATTENDANT

    Morning would find him sitting calmly, cross-legged, under the apple tree that sat on the edge of the park, staring up at a small branch and carefully watching the bud begin to open, ignoring all who passed. Morning would find him sitting calmly, cross-legged, under the apple tree watching the fragile blossom open, staring at…

    Lou Faber