Comments about Steve Whitson
Autumn winds brushing upon the pane like leaves upon a porch
Swirling and dancing their song of life
Days grow short and time stills like limpid pools of water in the deep cavern of our lives
We breathe as one rushing to peak as lovers; holding each other as if the moon would fall, the sun could die
We are all fragile in our own way. All meant to be together as one yet somehow impossibly alone.