Weapons, comfort and existence.
Words are my addiction; sometimes soft: a butterfly and sound of trees, or scent of snow — But words are often harsher, metals, minerals the kind you forge for war: […]
Category Archives: Real Toads
Only fiftyseven
Tick the box for yet a year cheer for all the new beginnings; sing the things for all that’s over slur intoxicated; dance and don’t look back for my forgiveness. […]
This is just to say
I have poured out the rye you had saved on the counter cause when you are befuddled enough to eat up the plums I had saved for my breakfast you […]
Can you see the forest for the trees?
Forest — is not only trees but mycorrhizal mulch and shrubs; it’s fox and fowl it’s scent and sounds; our past and future — yet, we chainsaw trees to pulp […]
Housekeeper of dust and rain
Don’t talk unless you can improve the silence Jorge Luis Borges The aged librarian sees scent in calm, palms it in his notebook; is the mouse — housekeeper of dust […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 