The river flows down hill Tides follow the moon Sun rises in the East and sets in the West Man is born, grows old and dies While each one follows it designated road None leave the path unchanged River cuts the canyon deep and full of beauty Tide turns the sea, refreshing and feeding Sun…
Category: Poetry
My Friends…
I have many old books for friends. They are soft, and worn, and smell of leather and the oils from my hands. When I slip into them, I become anyone, can go anyplace and they lift me up and hold me. In turn, I take care of their covers and pages, keeping them at rest…
R. Scott Tyler - writer 