Anne was born and raised in Wichita, Kansas. She has moved around a little, from Seattle, Washington to Canada, to California and then back to Seattle. Anne began to write seriously in early 2002. Her work has been published both nationally and internationally.
Anne has a degree in Law and Justice from Central Washington University and works as a legal assistant. In her spare time she draws a little, writes poetry, a little haiku and has attempted a short story or two. She looks forward to spending more time with the pen as life allows.
I.
Wrapped in silence,
the scent of white blossom
is carried from the earth,
the season slowly taking back
what was given.
A Separate Order
Soft padded feet of drizzling rain,
a rhythmic and insistent brotherhood
of mists across an ever reaching sky.
To join and slide against the
rim and curl of leaves and ferns,
to sweep the textured face
of spongy moss, spiced clover
and gray mulched leaves.
Small, once-potted things,
green leafed and budded,
open out to touch the separate order
held in rising tides, and in the
scent of apricot and scarlet.
The Cresting
The scent of a vast ocean
and its round circle journeys
from home-to-sky-to-home.
With salt lips, we laugh and wade
across the froth of curling waves,
skirts bunched up in tighten fists
to feel before the crest withdraws.
Gulls with white fringed wings
are high companions, arching with the winds.
Seaweed grasps at toes yet peels away
like bandages and old skin.
Within the clinging smell of kelp
and molted crabs, we have become
light and liquid.
Magda
Compassions' words, a child's eyes,
warmth there misrepresented, misperceived.
A pause between illusions flutters like
sparrow's breath, quick and unnoticed
in the small.
The gauze of mist blends easily
into vast oceans and dusk's half light.
Dreams form within the shape of clouds,
seen through veils of rising lashes.
Seabirds sift borders of an open sky,
unaware of turned black soil below
where creatures curl in narrow trails,
without shoulders, unforgiving.