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.

The harbor was quiet except for the distant hum of the barge and the occasional lapping of water against the pilings. Our small group from the Olympic Photo Club stood in scattered silence, cameras poised, each of us drawn into our own frame of the night.

I focused on the old dock, its weathered beams stretching over the water, bathed in the soft glow of the nearby barge. The reflections rippled gently, bending light into golden threads that shimmered and faded with each passing wave. It felt like standing in a place caught between time—silent and still, yet alive with movement in the dark.

I pressed the shutter, capturing the moment as it was: fleeting, quiet, full of stories whispered on the water.

This poem is really personal to me because it captures how it feels when you’re constantly stretched too thin, trying to do everything for everyone else and hiding how much it’s costing you. I wrote it for anyone who knows what it’s like to push themselves past their limits, not because they have to, but because they don’t want to let anyone down.

I’ve always struggled with setting boundaries. I take on too much, and even when I know I’m running on empty, I still say, “It’s fine, I’ve got this.” But it’s not fine. It’s exhausting. You tell yourself, “Next time, I’ll take care of me first,” but then next time comes, and it’s the same all over again. You just keep going because you feel like you have to.

For me, it’s not about being seen or appreciated—it’s about holding everything together, even at my own expense. And I don’t want anyone to see how hard it gets sometimes. It’s easier to hide it than admit that you’re struggling. But I think a lot of people can relate to that feeling of giving too much and forgetting to take care of yourself.

This poem is for people like that—for people like me. It’s a way of saying, “I see you, I get it, and you’re not alone.”

“The Ghosts We Grew Up With” dives into childhood imagination and fear inspired by family ghost stories. From the eerie tales of a grandmother’s haunted hotel to the chilling shadows of a basement pantry, this is a nostalgic look at how ordinary spaces become extraordinary through the lens of youthful wonder and terror.

I took this photo during Sequim’s Tractor Parade of Lights, and it inspired me to write the poem. The glowing lights, Santa riding along, and the festive spirit of the night were too magical not to capture in words. I hope both the image and the poem bring a bit of that holiday magic to life for you!

No One But You came from a quiet moment I had on Thanksgiving Day out on Ediz Hook. I remember standing there, watching a lone sea lion stretched out on a weathered dock under this deep cobalt sky. The harbor was faintly buzzing in the distance, but right there, everything felt still and timeless.

The scene really stayed with me—the dock, worn but steady against the tide, and the sea lion, so calm and at ease, just gazing out toward the hills like it had all the time in the world. It felt so personal, like the moment was just for me.

That peacefulness inspired the poem. It’s a reminder to find those small, grounding moments of stillness—even on a busy day like Thanksgiving—and to appreciate the beauty in just being present.

When the Crowds Drift Away came from my own experience of watching Port Angeles change with the seasons. In the summer, the town feels so alive—there’s energy everywhere, with busy streets, laughter, and the harbor full of life as visitors come and go. But when fall arrives and winter settles in, everything slows down. The crowds leave, the docks grow quiet, and the town almost feels like it’s taking a deep breath, resting for what’s ahead.

I wanted the poem to reflect that shift—the calm and stillness of the off-season, when the town feels different but no less beautiful. It’s a quiet time, almost like hibernation, as we wait for spring to bring it all back to life again. It’s something I’ve always loved about Port Angeles, how the seasons shape its rhythm and its spirit.

This is the photo that inspired Watcher of the Veil. Seeing the raven perched there, surrounded by the clouds and mountains of Hurricane Ridge, felt like stumbling onto something timeless. The way it looked out over the misty expanse wasn’t just passive—it felt like it was quietly guarding the boundary between what we understand and what lies beyond.

I was completely alone on the Ridge that early morning, and the whole moment had this quiet, mysterious energy that I couldn’t shake. That feeling stayed with me, and over time, it turned into the poem. The raven became a sort of watchful guardian, holding secrets it would never reveal.

I came across this mossy old picnic table during a hike on the Olympic Peninsula, and it immediately sparked my imagination. That’s how I came up with this fictional story about a family who vanished there on a foggy October night. In the story, people claim to hear whispers, see shadows, and feel like the table is watching them. It’s completely made up, but it’s fun to think about how a simple, overgrown table could hold such a chilling mystery!

One foggy fall evening at Lake Crescent, I came across a worn Carhartt shirt, half-buried by the shore. At first, it seemed like just a forgotten relic, maybe left by a hiker or fisherman. But with the mist curling around the lake, my imagination ran wild—what if it belonged to someone who wandered too far?

Lake Crescent has this way of feeling mysterious, like it’s holding onto secrets, and that shirt felt like part of its story. It’s amazing how something so simple can spark so many questions.

While hiking in the Olympic Peninsula, I came across this tree with a face carved into it by woodpeckers or maybe some other wildlife. The “eyes” and “mouth” looked so distinct that it gave me chills, almost like the tree was watching me.

That moment set my imagination spinning, and I came up with The Watcher, a fictional story about a vengeful forest spirit trapped inside an ancient tree. In the story, the tree becomes a sinister presence, waiting for anyone foolish enough to get too close. It’s all made up, of course, but the eerie “face” on that tree was all it took to inspire this dark legend!

Whispers in the Fog came from a quiet morning when I took this photo at the harbor in Port Angeles. The stillness of the scene completely pulled me in—the fishing boat gliding silently through the mist, the weathered dock holding steady, and the soft reflections on the water. It felt so calm yet filled with mystery.

It got me thinking about moments like this, where the fog seems to soften everything, wrapping the world in a kind of peaceful pause. That feeling stuck with me, and I tried to bring it to life in the poem. It’s about finding the quiet magic in the unknown and appreciating the stillness these moments offer.