This morning, I paused beneath a blooming cherry tree as the sunrise lit the petals in gold. After seven springs, it still surprises me—how something so familiar can feel brand new. That moment stayed with me, so I captured it in a photo… and a poem. Sometimes, all it takes is a little light to remind you to stop and breathe.

I took this photo during a photo walk with the Olympic Photo Club at Webster Woods yesterday evening. As we were wrapping up, I passed by this old gear—part of an art installation along the trail. I’d seen it before, but this time something about it stopped me.

It hung there so still, weathered and quiet, like it had a story it was keeping to itself. Not discarded, but not fully seen either. That feeling stayed with me—and became the heart of this poem Still Holding.

I didn’t expect to be drawn to a row of rusted bolts during our photo walk—but something about them stuck with me. This post is a quiet reflection on the strength of things that stay put, even when everything else moves around them.

Winter lingers, and my photography feels darker than I want it to be. I’m caught between seasons, longing for the lightness of spring while still wrapped in winter’s quiet. A rainy photo walk at Salt Creek reflected that contrast—moody, heavy, yet still beautiful. My poem The Silent Witness explores this theme of endurance and waiting, much like the forest itself.

Tonight, I finally went out with my camera for the first time this month, and for some reason, I kept seeing faces everywhere. It’s always interesting how some days, the smallest details or unexpected shapes seem to stand out more than others. This particular face caught my eye, weathered and silent, yet full of presence.

I couldn’t help but imagine a story behind it—of something ancient, something lost and waiting. That feeling inspired this poem, The Watcher in the Wood. It’s a reflection of how time, nature, and memory can intertwine, leaving behind whispers in the things we pass by every day.

Just wanted to share this moment and the poem it sparked—do you ever see faces in unexpected places?

Winter was long, not just in the chill of the air but in the weight of everything it carried. As February fades, I reflect on the season that tested patience and endurance—and the quiet hope that now begins to stir. Spring isn’t just warmth returning; it’s renewal, a reminder that even after the hardest days, light and growth will come again. This post is a farewell to winter’s heaviness and a step forward into brighter days.

"The Spaces We Keep" is a poem about the hidden parts of ourselves—the dreams, fears, and secrets we guard behind closed doors. It explores the tension between how others see us and who we truly are, asking whether we’ll ever find someone who sees past the surface. I wrote this to honor the quiet, unspoken layers of our lives and to remind us that we’re all more than the stories others tell about us. It’s an invitation to look deeper, both at others and at ourselves.

“The Edge of Letting Go" is a story about fear, freedom, and the courage to take flight. Through two gulls, Len and Kai, it explores the tension between safety and growth. Are you standing on the edge, unsure of the next step? Read more and let the wind guide you. 🌊✨

Some days, photography is about more than just the image—it’s about being in the moment, feeling the quiet shift of the world around you, and capturing the in-between.

A planned photo shoot at the Dungeness Schoolhouse turned into a battle against freezing winds on the Dungeness Levee. With gusts too strong to fight, we lasted only thirty minutes before calling it quits. On my way home, I stopped at one of my favorite barns on Towne Road, capturing a quiet moment that made the struggle worth it.

After seeing Lake Crescent Lodge covered in snow, last Thursday, the eerie quiet stayed with me. There was something haunting about the way the cabins stood empty, their lights dark except for one. That lingering image, combined with the weight of winter pressing in, made me think of the legend of the Lady of the Lake—how the waters of Lake Crescent once hid a terrible secret, and how some say her spirit still lingers.

The ink was still wet.

Elena’s breath caught as she stared at the words on the page, stark against the yellowed paper:

You should not have come back.

The wind pressed against the cabin, rattling the doorframe.

Beyond it, the trail to Marymere Falls shimmered in the moonlight.

And beneath the ice—beneath the frozen cascade—

Something shifted.

Something that had been waiting.

The wind carried whispers across the lake, skimming the icy surface before vanishing into the trees. Snow clung to the empty chairs, their wooden arms heavy with winter’s silence. I stood there, breath slow, watching the last sliver of light fade behind the mountains. The cold pressed into my skin, but for a moment, I didn’t mind. The world felt quiet, like it was waiting for something—or maybe, just listening.

This morning, a few of us from the Olympic Photo Club met at the Port Angeles Harbor, hoping for a spectacular sunrise. Instead, we got a quiet, blue-gray morning—soft, subdued, and a little sleepy. No fiery sky, no golden light, just the hush of the harbor and a lone heron keeping watch. I wasn’t feeling great and almost didn’t come, but I’m glad I did. I wore a mask to keep my germs to myself, but even from a bit of a distance, the company was good, and the vibes were positive. Sometimes, it’s not about the light in the sky but the moments shared in the quiet. This poem is a reflection of that—a reminder that beauty isn’t always in the grand, expected things but in the simple ones. Looking forward to the next meet-up, where we’ll chase the light again, no matter what the sky decides to give us.

Inspired by a friend's photo, this poem, Should I Stay or Should I Scroll?, explores how social media promises connection but often isolates us. It questions whether we're truly engaging with those around us or just passing through life with our heads down, scrolling. What might happen if we looked up, even briefly—could we reconnect, or are we too attached to our screens?

"The Habit of Choice" is my take on how every day feels like a blank canvas, and it’s up to me to decide what to create. Misery and happiness are habits we grow, and this poem is a reminder that the life we shape comes down to those small, daily choices.

“The Silent Exchange” captures a moment I experienced at the duck pond at Carrie Blake Park—a quiet, unexpected connection with a lone mallard. She stood still, calm and steady, her eyes meeting mine in a way that felt deliberate, as if she wasn’t just looking at me but into me. For a moment, it was like time paused, and the ripples on the water became part of the conversation we weren’t having out loud.

Her reflection in the water mirrored something deeper—a quiet question, maybe even an answer I hadn’t realized I was looking for. I couldn’t tell if I was watching her or if she was watching me, but in that stillness, it felt like we both understood something unspoken. It wasn’t just about observing her; it was about noticing the moment and the connection, a fleeting pause that left me with more than I expected.

I was out photographing birds, focused on their movements, when a graceful motion caught my eye. It unfolded so quickly that I barely had time to adjust my lens, capturing the soft light on feathers and the ripples it left behind. Moments like this—a fleeting dance, gone in an instant—are what make bird photography so rewarding.

In Wings of Memory, I wanted to capture the feelings of loss and renewal through a simple yet powerful scene—two weathered posts in the tide, each with a bird perched on top. One bird stands tall with its wings stretched wide, almost like it’s reaching for something beyond its grasp. The other bows its head in stillness, as if lost in quiet sorrow. To me, they felt like symbols of that delicate balance between holding onto the past and finding the strength to move forward.

The poem draws on the whispers of the water, the steady pull of the tide, and the echoes of love that linger long after someone is gone. It’s my way of exploring how grief and hope coexist, much like the tide that never truly leaves. I hope it speaks to you and offers a moment to reflect on your own memories.

I’ll Drift With You is really just me trying to put into words the quiet beauty of a harbor at night. There’s something so peaceful about the way the amber lights reflect on the water, how the tide ripples softly, and how everything feels still but alive at the same time. It’s the kind of moment that makes you slow down and just breathe it all in.

The poem is about companionship—the kind that doesn’t need words. It’s about walking together through the shadows and calm, past anchored boats and the faint sounds of the dock. Each light feels like a little piece of hope, guiding you forward through the night.

To me, it’s a reminder that even in the quietest moments, there’s a sense of movement and renewal. It’s about finding comfort in someone’s presence, drifting together and knowing that with each step, there’s a promise of something new ahead. It’s personal and simple, but I hope it resonates with you, too.