Clear sunny beach days,

Even in wintertime.

Just close your eyes, ...

Big nose,

Bulging colorful eyes,

And mine. ...

Time to leave again…

Me in the plane,

She, driving off. ...

Sometimes,

Words can’t paint the story,

A picture speaks. ...

Silent words,

With a hint of a smile,

As I stared into the mirror, ...

What is it?

Water?

A molecular image ...

Closed, yet an illusion…

It’s her pictures

That open parts, ...

Overwhelmed,

But hanging on.

Refusing to drown. ...

Today it snowed,

So I cooled a few beers,

To later enjoy. ...

Morning mist,

Tangled branches without leaves,

Roots buried in the deep. ...

Just a few more steps,

And I’ll almost…

Be there. ...

Me at eighty…

A little bit of wood,

Written all I could, ...

A coffee with brandy please…

It feels cool,

Morning fog’s leaving, ...

Time to burn the past.

Old papers from a different life,

Blood from the same old knife. ...

My edges feel frozen,

But I’m alive.

I have dreams, ...

I too dream of flying.

In my heart I do.

In my mind, I’m afraid to. ...

A special village I know well in Catalonia is gradually getting smaller as the years pass. The younger generation migrating towards urban ...

Delicate,

Intricate,

Soft, ...

Orange, in a sea of green…

Not belonging, misunderstood, unaccepted?

Perhaps. ...

Summer beach cabins,

Locked for the season.

Foggy mornings, ...