Jesus and the crown of thorns Canvas Print

Another ember crackled in the fire
as the whispering winds of past
echoed silence outside my door.

The rocking of the smooth pine
kept time like an aged pentameter
slowly winding down.
And the rhythmic swaying
slowly lulled my bones to rest.

A tickle in my eye misted my squinted greens
and the thought of death
gave a smile upon a wrinkled face.

The crackling on the floorboards
moaned under the weight.
And life dripped into the decade
old grooves that had worn its
way into the tracks that I had chosen.

The last pass of the pendulum
as the sickle makes it mark.
The chair ground to a halt
as the pianist clamped the lid on the box.

Born and at times housed along the riverbanks of the great St. Lawrence river in Lachine, Montreal until settling into the quiet sanctuaries of foster homes on Prince Edward Island. The chimney red clay roads wound effortlessly throughout the countryside up and over the green hills and through the spacious meadows filled with potato farms and struggling sheep ranchers. Wild blueberry patches and lavender flowers graced the green pastors with Spring time vitality and beauty that only a God could create and only a woman could appreciate and understand. Each river beckoned with hungry trout just begging for a fresh worm and a metal hook, almost daring Huck Finn enthusiasts to skip school and cast their bamboo lines into the mystical...