By Michael Lee Johnson

I live my life inside my patio window.It’s here, at my business desk I slipinto my own warm pajamas and slippers-seek Jesus, come to termswith my own cross and brittle conditions.Outside, winter night turns to winter storm,the blue jay, cardinal, sparrows and dovesgo into hiding, away from the razor whipping winds,behind willow tree bare limb branches-they lose their faces in somber hue.Their voices at night abbreviateand are still, short like Hemingway sentences.With this poetic mind, no one caresabout the seasons and the slantsthe wind or its echoes.