Prose poetry amid splendid photography.

shebicycles

Day after day, year after year, I ride past an old grandmother.  She is greying and stooped, her old bones are weathered and tired – yet she is sill beautiful, even sacred.  At least to me.

For many years she stood … tall and proud, solid and steadfast, quiet and imposing, yet welcoming and kind.  She was a dependable storehouse, a nursery, a warm and fragrant embrace for man and animal.  She is a landmark, a sentinel, a piece of the landscape as much as any creek or any mountain.  She has seen many years, and she is filled with her own stories.

I have known her for only a small portion of her life.   I have tried to listen for her stories.  I have touched her bones.  I have felt her embrace.

When the tornadoes of April 2011 set upon her quiet valley, it was more than she…

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