Dawn’s mist hovered
above a forest path of crushed leaves.
The woman stumbled over unseen, gnarled roots.

She held a bundle close to her chest,
a satchel hung on her shoulder.
She walked slowly, her face unreadable.

She saw nothing,
heard nothing,
on her journey to
the flow of water.

The stream’s water rushed
over rocks and smooth stones.
She knelt on soft moss,
unwrapping the bundle.

Bloody rags.

She took each one,
unfolded it, and soaked it
in the clear water.

She rubbed the rags against
a smooth rock—
lighter bloodstains remained.
She laid them out to dry in the sun.

Did I not climb the 99 steps on my knees?
Did I not bleed then, bead by bead, in prayer?
Was St. André’s heart not enough to bless me?

She removed her clothing—
thighs and legs stained.
Her face, bloodied from her hands
wiping away her flood of tears.

She lifted the fetus from the satchel.
Uncovering the tiny being,
she stepped into the stream,
clutching her baby girl to her chest.
They bathed in clear spring water.

The woman lay naked in the sun, motionless,
holding her baby over her empty womb.

She spread sage and lavender over the dry rags,
wrapped her daughter in clean muslin,
then buried her deeply next to the stream.

She built a cairn.
No name was given.

The woman walked the path home.
Silent.
Her heart veiled.

One year later, she returned,
knelt by the cairn,
planted a lily bulb,
saying nothing.

She returned less often.

Her hair finally shone silver strands.
She lived, laughed,
yet a tiny hollow in her heart
remained—
holding pain.

Once at the cairn,
she laid a lily,
planted another bulb.
One tear fell.

They say you forgive.
What could she have done
to need absolution?

My hallelujah is broken.

The woman’s heart remained cold
toward her God.

When she returned,
her back bent,
supported by her staff.

The woman knelt at the cairn,
pulled weeds,
smoothed the soil,
and laid a bouquet of lilies.

She whispered to her child.
Her aged hand trembled,
touching the cairn,
bowing her head—
naming her daughter.

Then she looked up,
seeing the dappled sunlight on leaves,
counting their colors,
listening to the rushing stream.

She used the tree trunk and staff,
slowly raising herself:
her body trembled with the effort.
She leaned the staff against the tree;
her arms at her sides;
her palms facing outward, empty.

She looked at the crimson and gold leaves,
smiling.

I believed in the perfect idea of you.
I climbed on my knees.
You never asked me to.

I supplicated.
I pleaded for forgiveness.
You never asked me to.

I know this: all is consecrated.

I love.

And I am free.

About the Art—
Wax and Oil/Photography Collage

The Cairn © 2026 Lee Anne Morgan

There is a willow
by the river
rarely noticed.

She is not among the celebrated trees—
cherry blossoms and dogwoods in spring,
maples in October, and great old oaks.

Yet…
In spring, she is the first to bring us new green.
In winter, she is the last to leave, bowing to rest.

Her green fronds touching the river’s flow
were shaved to short stubs three years ago—
for picnic tables that never arrived.

Her fronds grow back.
Still, not fully.
They begin again.

She witnesses the ordinary…
couples who vow beneath her
a fisherman returning season after season, catching nothing
the child dragging a stick through mud on Sunday afternoons
and,
a patient, wizened man who leans against her trunk,
listening to the river’s voice at dawn.

Her fronds rustle and sway in
the faintest breeze.

This is her music.

And on one autumn morning,
the willow by the river
gave a lone photographer
a rare moment.

A mishap in the email sent; it didn’t reach most subscribers. I apologize if you’re receiving this twice.

Two weeks after September 11, I drove into Manhattan.

Nine months earlier, I had moved to an island off the mid-coast of Maine. Friends and neighbors there and in New York urged me not to make the long drive.

But Manhattan had been my home for forty years.

I wanted to see people I loved. I wanted to listen to their stories and grief, to cry with them, hug them, and perhaps help soothe something that could not yet be soothed.

The city I entered was unrecognizable.

A plume of smoke spiraled upward near the West Side Highway. Streets ordinarily filled with people, cars, horns, voices, and movement were nearly empty. Tanks and military men and women carried heavy weapons.

And silence.

Except for helicopters circling overhead.

I stayed with a friend who lived near the Armory, where hundreds of photographs of those still called “missing” had been posted. She suggested I take a walk.

I carried my backpack with two film cameras and rolls of color and black-and-white film.

I took many photographs.

Only one remained with me.

I rounded a corner and saw a weather-beaten sheet of paper taped to an iron gate.

Imagine.

I took the photograph.

And then, for years, I didn’t show it.

I thought it wasn’t good enough. The paper was battered, the words indistinct. Somehow I had arrived both too soon and too late.

Years later, I returned to the original film and digitized the image, careful not to disturb its integrity. The words still refuse to come completely into focus.

Perhaps they don’t need to.

I first wrote about this photograph years ago. I am sharing it again today because I remember, along with the horror and unbearable loss, something else.

For a little while, we reached for one another.

The world reached toward us.

John Lennon imagined humankind living as one.

Years after that piece of paper hung from an iron gate in a wounded city, I find myself looking at it again.

And listening.

Can we still imagine?

—l.a.m

A mug of tea is cradled in both hands. Windows open wide; tea steam unfurls into morning air. The scent of dew on rock and leaf drifts in. Thunderstorms may arrive—but mountains have their own temperaments and timing.

An owl now resides in a nearby tree. He hoots softly—just before dawn—while I sip tea.

Dawn crests the mountain as small golden leaves float lazily from tall trees.

Attention turns to where books riotously scatter—on tables and desks and floors—waiting to be read.

And they will be. But not today.

Scribbled notes on scraps of paper for poems and stories sit on my desk. A completed manuscript, after two months’ slumber in a drawer, waits for fresh eyes.

Small wonders: tea and a new companion who whispers before dawn; books to read and books still to write; a manuscript brought to completion. I cannot ask for more.

The world owes me nothing.

Yes, this is a good day to turn eighty-three.

—l.a.m.

Yes, the caterpillar was real. Long ago, he emerged in a backyard, abundant with apple trees, facing the deep blue waters off the coast of Maine. It is easy to use this image, taken with a macro lens, to see how an ordinary small thing becomes extraordinary—even hallowed.

Still, what returns to me is not the caterpillar but a tiny leaf clinging to a window. She holds fast even in the wind; perhaps it’s raining, and rivulets form irregular patterns on the glass, yet the small leaf stays… but attention? It is not given.

Let’s look again at her veins—the architecture within, where she is not fully colored, and where she is brilliant red. The leaf is a small thing, and when we make time to notice, including her willingness to abide by the window, we see more clearly. And then? Ah, we don’t merely see the leaf but the mystery, too.

And that? That is what makes a small thing holy. Perhaps even prayer.

Though you can't see it in email form, I’ve returned home to the site name that reflects my writing and my heart at 83 years—within weeks. I live among quiet things. Life’s thresholds brought the quiet, the simplicity, the time to do what I love. You are invited to visit the Among Quiet Things Website in its warmest glow, where tea steeps, and you are always welcome.

In gratitude,

About the Art

The Buddha & The Monk/Photograph
© 2004
Lee Anne Morgan

sometimes, a cello’s bow
drawn gently across the string
awakens a sound we forgot to remember.

sometimes, a line of poetry stills our breath;
we don’t know why.

sometimes, the scent of a rose is so heady
we return to another time, another place.

did we miss anything important,
pausing to meet the rose?

does it matter?

and then, we hear the hush
before the first snowflake falls,
or the mountains pray when it rains,
or tall pines sing ancient songs.

and then, we write the first line of our first poem,
or the hundredth.

sometimes we’re surprised by whimsy
and then…

we laugh,
aloud,
a lot.

About the Art

'Alien Whimsy’
Photography & Wax Painting
© 2024/2026
Lee Anne Morgan

Autumn arrived out of season.

The early-morning breeze was wrapped in gladness, and the birdsong was perfection—surely a nightingale had been appointed choir master overnight. The whim of the wind played with tree branches and new flowers on long stems. The sun’s slender streaks shone through thick woodland, their light dancing on leaves.

Nature lured me, so I walked to the riverfront.

A snowshoe hare nibbled clover in a small patch of grass. At peace, he knew it was an autumnal day, with flirtatious breezes carrying the scents of spring. I smiled at the blue, sparkling river. Marshmallow clouds drifted beneath the blue dome. Flags billowed. Boats were moored. One boat’s sails sculpted the wind in the middle of the river, while white-capped waves lapped, creating bits of foam.

I started back home on Second Street. Yes! The bistro. Fresh croissant. I sat outside listening to morning doves coo from high wires and church steeples and the highest treetops.

The walk home began on a dirt path lined with wildflowers and climbing crimson roses along broken fences. I stepped onto the pavement and heard a loud, angry voice. An old man screamed at another in foul language, and his rancor landed on me, shattering my morning’s peace in seconds.

My first thought was neither kind nor charitable, but harsh. I stilled. Breathed. After 45 years of meditation and writing about kindness and love, how could I have such thoughts?

But I did.

I became Rumi’s Guest House, trying to negotiate with and accept the deeply human parts of myself.

My inner rage was no different from the angry man’s outward expression.

(His anger? Ah, someone had parked on the street in front of his lawn without asking. It was Community Day in the Village. They didn’t know the parking laws because they didn’t live here. The angry man lived in a well-ordered home with an immaculately kept lawn and garden. He considered that small stretch of road part of his homestead. The car was an intrusion. I understood.)

And I forgot that the strings of my heart always need tuning.

Once home, I set the kettle to boil for tea. Soon, the mug of hot brew was in my hands. Gazing out the window, I was delighted to see the snowshoe hare nibbling grass. And something more: Two plump doves perched on the closest branch of the closest tree nearest my window.

I spent the morning laughing out loud at my arrogance and baffling, harmful intention toward a man, ‘same as me.’

Grateful, too, for another life lesson with peaceful companions, seen and unseen.

About the Art

Two Plump Doves/Photograph
© 2024
Lee Anne Morgan

With gratitude for companions along the way~

Rumi’s ‘Guest House’

“Same Kind of Different as Me" is a phrase attributed to Denver Moore, chronicled in his 2006 memoir co-authored with Ron Hall.

Hafiz—The Heart Is a Thousand-Stringed Instrument

The Art

‘250 Years’/Photograph
Ⓒ 2013/2026
Lee Anne Morgan

I gave myself permission to stay in the comfort of soft pillows and a blanket.

I woke at 4 a.m., smiling about a dream featuring an apple, a puppy, and a man.

The man rinsed the apple in a flowing stream, then sliced it with a small penknife and said, “This first slice is for you, pup.” The man and the pup sat on a weathered bench beneath a gnarled chestnut tree. While sharing the apple, they watched and listened as the stream’s water spiraled into eddies, and a riot of golden leaves fell upon it, following the voice of the stream.

Birdsong had already begun. A mild dawn breeze floated through my windows, carrying the scent of earth: trees, soil, and all manner of living things. This was too perfect to leave. But tea finally called to me, and I performed my modest morning ritual of lighting three candles.

I put the kettle on, and while it was working its way to a boil, I lit incense, then the candles: one in gratitude for a brand-new 24 hours, and one for freedom for all in pain and suffering. The third candle? Ah—that I might not hurry past another human heart today.

There was no need to check the weather. With the apartment windows flung open, I was living in it.

I sat with steaming tea in the old blue-chipped mug, watching dawn’s light overcome the darkness. Birdsong swelled, and slender slivers of early sunlight rested on the leaves.

A wind, no longer a mild breeze, stirred all the trees, and I believed the woodland and the birds in flight and song were easing me into my day.

It was only 5:00 or 5:30 a.m.

After making another cup of tea, I returned to my chair and watched the wind rustle half the leaves on one branch while the others stayed still. How? And, isn’t that a wonder? I sat without forming thoughts, without reviewing my ‘to-do’ list for the day, without checking in with my editor about my latest draft, or peeking at any messages.

No other sounds—yet—just watching the morning unfold.

When I finally sat down at the computer, I immediately walked away from the keyboard and the white screen.

Instead, I settled back into my chair, feeling the breeze on my face and arms. Birds were still singing—it was only 9 a.m.

I gave myself permission to take a nap after doing nothing.

But was it nothing?

I longed to tell someone about all of these things—so small, so ordinary.

And so I am.

I’m telling you.

About the Art

Title: ‘A Chipped Blue Mug’
Copyright: 2001/Stonington, Maine
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

After 100 years—something I forgot to remember.

Journal notations, midnight to dawn.
I close the book.
Ink is dry; pen’s nib worn.
Nothing revealed—
only the sound of paper, the scent of ink.

No sea breeze at dawn.
Ocean waves, restless.
I step into mist.

Cold clamminess greets me.

The old crow flies into the forest.
Gulls, hundreds, fly inland.
An osprey glides to a hidden nest.
Sandpipers huddle in hollows.

Not dawn.
A half-light spreads across
an endless ocean—
swollen, roiling.

A windstorm, the windstorm
draws near.

Tea brewed.
Fire stoked.
Both hands embrace the steaming mug.

It sits in my bones.
Fear.

Winds reach the shore.
They whip around the cottage.
The door breaks open—
a dark gyre.

I walk into the turbulence.
It holds no pity, nor wrath.

I stand firm.

yes,
it is time.

The unrest calms.

I look for something I need—
shears.

The long braid
is held in my hand.
The shears close—
releasing tethers.
More.

A woven tunic. One shawl.
A door closes.

what remains…
the shore.

Empty.
No cottage.
A thatch hut.

Seasons of red sunsets unfold.
A driftwood staff,
twilight’s long shadow—
a bent body’s measured pace.

Walking the edges of land and water,
my footprint pauses:
A cairn is built.

I choose small things, too:
Bones, one eagle feather, shells.
I wear them…
What was.
What is.

Nighttime.
A bonfire.

Stringing the last bone,
a precious life once lived.

I listen to waves
turn back
to ocean’s breath.

Dawn.
The fire’s embers remain.
I lay the driftwood staff on them.

Standing, I loosen the worn tunic—
now in sand.

The bone and feather necklace
is returned on an endless ocean wave.

thank you

Breathing with all that exists,
I walk—
to the edges of the world.

Naked.
A half smile.

And the red-tailed hawk wheels above.

About the Art

Title: ‘The Reckoning’
Copyright: 2026 (Photography/Wax & Oil Painting)
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

About the Art

Title: ‘Blossom Wall’
©️ 2024
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

The tea kettle confirmed everything.
Lifting it with two aching arms,
two trembling hands,
pouring hot water over tea leaves—
now a dangerous act.

A cherished morning ritual,
sustained for decades.
Another loss?
Maybe.

Something falls to the floor.
I can no longer bend to pick it up.
Later, perhaps, when my body warms.

Four-mile daily walks; now one-quarter mile.
Rest is needed before going further.

Those who know do not.
They complete testing rituals;
scratch their heads.
A rapid onset of age in mere months,
or something more?

I smile a half-smile.

Yes, there is pain.
But is there suffering?

Aging gives me time and grace—
a measured pace to walk
with the God I choose.

A new covenant is shaped
with mind, body, and spirit.

Attention must be paid!

listen to birdsong;
it changes throughout the day.

see the sky—a pas de deux
between clouds and sun.

rejoice in the hues of sunrise and sunset.

seek to hear messengers in the winds:
watch leaves flutter,
or trees bow low.

oh, my favorites are morning mists,
wraithlike, or a benevolent presence.

yes, yes, leaves are tenderly burdened by dew.
yet one drop holds the entire sky!

Age sits on my shoulders—
my autumn is here.

Did I truly think it would pass me by?

My heart knew.
Now I do, too.

This is a new life dance.
And I rejoice.

About the Art

Title: ‘Attention Must Be Paid’
©️ 2026
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

No one knew when it was built.

It was ancient
Born of earth.
Breathing earth.

It was always there, some said.
Shelter under rock ledge.
Simply named The Hut.

Over centuries,
walls appeared,
then a door,
a window,
a hearth.

No one knew who tended it.
Yet The Hut was always cared for.

When an old monk arrived,
he added fence and garden,
cultivating rich soil for planting.

He pondered The Hut.

Walls,
stone and earth.
Oak door,
iron hinges and lock.

Sitting on his haunches, he smiled.
Then he laughed aloud,
then he rolled in the grass laughing,
then laughing still until tears spilled,
and, finally—
laughing more at what was fathomless.

yes, yes, it just is

Many seasons unfolded.
The monk grew frail.

Still, on thin legs,
he carried buckets of water
from stream to Hut.

For the seedlings.

One day,
he walked to gather brushwood for a gate.
He chose each piece with care.

He placed the brushwood on the ground.
Where the gate would stand.

On another day, the monk placed his food bowl on the table;
his staff, against the door.
Removing robes, he folded them over the fence.
Naked, he walked deep into the forest—
smiling.

Freezing winters.
Icicles hung low over The Hut.
Snows of beauty; snows of violence.

Summer’s heat baked earth and stone.
Storms flooded,
lightning strikes broke ancient trees.

Autumn’s rain and crimson leaves,
cooled the world.
The Hut still stood.

One late autumn,
gold, russet, red leaves fell,
carpeting the forest floor.

It was at this time,
a physician wandered off his path.
Cold, hungry, half drunk.

Near the path lay a rusted iron latch,
half-buried in leaves.
He picked it up without thinking,
and carried it with him.

The Hut waited.
Still.
Silent.

Hello, there? Hello?
He did not enter.
Caution.
Fear of what might be.

He was chilled, feverish.

Leaning against a red maple,
his hands shook.

He slid down the tree.
Soft, moss-covered earth received him.
He drank from the bottle.
Stared at the full moon.

These damn falling leaves sound like drums.
He slept fitfully.

She was five years old.
My hands failed.

He jolted up, raging at the moon, the stars.
He yelled obscenities at his God.

He wept, he drank.
The bottle emptied.

He dropped the bottle
into the brushwood.

The latch slipped
into the leaves.

He walked to The Hut.
Stopped.
Passed out at the threshold.

Morning sun woke him.
Bleary-eyed,
retching,
hammers pounding in his head.
Fever, tremors.

I cannot enter.
But maybe a bottle?

He gathered strength,
turned the handle that did not turn.

The Hut did not yield.

He remembered a pond or lake.
Jumped into its clear water.
Rinsed himself, his clothes.

He tried avoiding The Hut—
it unsettled him.
He came to a fork in the path,
guessing direction.

The Hut again.

The physician coughed in spasms,
blood on the ground.

His eyes slowly closed;
knowingly.

He no longer thought of the bottle.
He no longer felt pain.

Perhaps I should try again.
Turn the knob,
maybe sleep.

He walked to the door,
the handle started to turn.
Suddenly, his hands lifted.
No.

He sat for the morning,
leaning against The Hut’s warm stone.
His cough, deep; a wet patch beside him.
Life ebbing in hours or minutes.

Leaves fell,
not like drums.
Their sound soothed;
the scent of swaying pines,
cleared his fog.

He inhaled—
spasms,
cracked ribs.

Why here?

A tradesman passed The Hut.
The physician had no identification.
They buried him in the village graveyard.

No one ever knew.

Only The Hut.

Decades passed.
The Hut stood in silence.
Patience, too.
Grief has its own time.

On one summer day,
a song was sung,
a Scottish lilt heard.
A large man belonged to the song,
and the lilt—
a woodcutter who no longer cut wood.

He stood before The Hut,
assessed its presence,
chores needing tending.

Brushwood, bundled, tied.
He knew it wanted to become.
You’ve waited a long time, my friends.

When he was young,
he cut trees for timber.

One winter he split a fallen trunk
and saw the grain open into wings.

After that,
he preferred fallen wood.

He began whittling small things.

A flute—
only six holes,
in his pocket,
always.

As he carefully built the brushwood gate,
he thought about his larger sculptures.
A modest man, he just smiled.

Near the bundled wood
he noticed the iron latch.
Rusted, but sound.

He cleaned it slowly
and fitted it to the gate.

Ha! You are done.

The gate was delicate in appearance,
but strong.

An old monk had chosen each piece.
A large man with gentle hands
gave it purpose.

The woodcutter looked around.
He sanded the window panes,
applied his oils.

He spent days on the oak entrance door,
sanding it to its natural grain,
sealing it with his sculpting oils.
How the oak door gleamed;
each grain smiled back as he sang.

He entered The Hut.
Of course, you are feminine.

He studied the stone walls:
drawings, poems, paintings, glyphs.

Humming, pondering.
Not a song yet, for this special lady.
The right one would come to him soon,
her melody hesitant.

He considered sealing the stone walls.
His hands, then his ear, pressed on the walls.
Ah—yes.
Perfection as is.

He looked at the hearth.
Nothing hung above it.

Shall I chisel into the stone, ‘The Hut’?

The Hut was silent.
Okay, then, shall I carve a wooden sign?

He heard an exhale—yes.

His hands chiseled into rare wood,
white with soft golden grain.
His tools yielded to his touch.

There was melody in the work;
presence in the sign.

The woodcutter looked around—
he left all he could give.

Except—:
he pulled the flute from his pocket,
stood center room,
played a winsome tune,
one he didn’t know.

it was my honor to serve you

Only several seasons passed,
when sandaled feet stepped carefully
across the stream’s rocks.
Edges of her long maroon robe,
dragging through water.

The woman stopped,
reaching moss-covered ground,
blanketed with crimson leaves.

Autumn splendor reigned.

The sun warmed her bald head.
She touched it, smiling.

Walking the moss-laden path,
she listened.
Moving slowly
each step a deliberate action.

Myriad scents mingled.
Pungent. Sweet.

She saw The Hut
and breathed recognition.

Stepping through the gate,
the latch squeaked, almost a cry.
She made a mental note—
repair.

Ah—the gardens, plentiful enough.
She approached the threshold,
the door waited.

The woman passed her hand across her bald head
one more time.

She bent, unfastened her sandals,
left them in neat order,
at the threshold.

She opened the door,
slowly walking into the room.

Tradition taught her to bow her head.
She did.

Her eyes inhaled the one-room.
Time would reveal its details.

She did note one corner table,
a candlelit lantern ready to light.
Calligraphy brushes,
a variety of rice paper.
She held one brush and another,
touched their bristles,
lifted the ink stone,
smelled liquid India ink.

She removed her stamp from her robes.
Yes, this is good.

She turned to the woodstove,
readied for use.
Struck the match, lit the fire.
The kettle, set to boil for tea.

The woman did not delay her next action—
she unwrapped her robes,
watching them fall to the floor.
Jeans and T-shirt now,
her only wardrobe.

She carefully folded the robes—
set them aside for some other use.

The woman lived easily in The Hut;
she chopped wood, carried water.

Her chores, dedicated to mornings.
Her afternoons, devoted to practice.

She brushed poems,
painted,
sketched.

Daily at dusk,
she walked to the stream.
She talked, listened, breathed with it—
a companion.

On one such day,
when edges of light and dark
fold into one another,
she spotted a bowl in a thicket of weeds.

Cracked, misshapen with age,
she washed it, wiped it clean.
Before the hearth that night,
she sanded lightly,
grain shone through.

She thought,
I will use this bowl for food.
Worn and weathered—
still of noble stock.

The woman was forty years old
when she crossed The Hut’s threshold.

Her hair grew long, black—
like silk.

Seasons unfolded,
the woman did, too.

She matched her heartbeat
with the stream’s; all nature.

She nurtured the land,
gardens expanded.

She shared harvest with others.
Her life—
Poor.
Quiet.
Simple.

Forty years later,
threads of silver streaked her hair.
She sat at the stream and listened.

No reason to speak anymore.
Answers, questions were hers, within.

At dusk, she brought a lotus flower,
placing it beside her.
She sat through the night,
listening.

She returned to The Hut at dawn.
The sky, swaths of color.
She breathed scents of pine,
dewy moss—
the last rose.

Opening the gate,
the latch cried.

She removed her sandals
before opening the door.

A breeze followed,
scattering crimson leaves across the floor.

She noted the leaves, smiling.

Placed the kettle on the stove.
Stoked coals.
Added a log.

Later that day,
tea steeped.
Sun’s long shadows streamed through the open door.
The woman sketched scattered crimson leaves …

The gate latch cried again.
She set the sketch aside.

Sakura walked to the gate.
Dear one, forty years is a long time.
She rubbed oil into the iron
until the latch moved easily once more.

She made a small bow to The Hut—:
latch,
brushwood gate,
monk,
physician,
and the woodcutter.

She knew them all.

Dōmo arigatō

About the Art

Title: ‘The Last Rose’
Copyright: 2006/2026 (Remastered)
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

She Is Given Water

Cold penetrates her bones.
Trembling—ice in veins.
Salt tears flood.

Pain and sorrow
assume home in bone—
marrow, too.

A monastery bell rings.

Yet what is real—
what is believed—

To whom does she hand pain—
now on fire, fevered…

She screams,
removes her clothes,
stands naked—
without shame—
before all.

She is given water.

An hour later.

Systems shatter.

Still,
those who bow believe
all is well—
even now.

About the Art

Title: ‘Fractured'
Copyright: 2026 (Photograph/Wax/Painting)
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

At 3 a.m., I sit at my desk, fingers hovering over keys.
Not computer keys. Old typewriter keys.

I type a name and watch each letter press into the page—

O b e r o n.

Outside, frost silvered the mountain beneath a full moon. A small lamp cast an amber glow across the desk while the old typewriter clicked softly into the night.

In late hours like these, memories return clearly:
my log cabin on the mountain,
a cat named Henry,
and a gentle Bernese Mountain dog named Oberon.

Some stories wait years before finding their proper night.

—L.A.

The Tale of Oberon and The Moon that Forgot Itself

Long ago—but not so long that it can’t still be felt—there was a moon that had forgotten its own name. It hung in the sky, round and pale, watching the world spin below with a quiet longing. The stars whispered, the tides rose and fell for her, but she felt nothing.

One night, as frost curled over the mountain pines and the rivers slowed into song, a tiny creature ventured out for his first adventure and appeared beneath her light. Not a wolf. Something else.

Oberon, the pup.

He was too young to speak, too wild to obey, too taken by the wind to walk straight. But he looked up, nose twitching, eyes the color of storybook sky, and he barked—not loud, but true. One bark. Just for her.

The moon shivered.

He sat. Barked again.

And something within the lonely silver orb cracked open.

She whispered back, not with words, but with glow—
pouring silver into the fur at his crown, curling a thread of moonlight around his tail. She hadn’t spoken in eons, but for him, she did.

And from that night on, the moon remembered her name.
And Oberon? He carried it in his chest, like a second heartbeat.
He never told a soul what she said.
Not the hawk,
nor the friendly fox.
Not even the girl who would one day dance in the fields and call his name.

But sometimes, when the moon is high, and the wind is warm, you might see him sitting perfectly still, eyes closed, chest glowing faintly…

And if you listen very closely—
you just might hear him bark back softly.

About the Art

Oberon the Pup
© 2026
Co-created by Lee Anne & Liora

Early one morning—

A walk to the River.
Waves capping—
a spring breeze.

The dome above,
sky-blue perfection.

Still no breeze
where I place footsteps.

Village streets
lined with cherry blossoms,
or,
is it snow?

Does it matter?

Gently burdened tree limbs,
do not blush in modesty.

They are shameless in beauty.

One block from the River,
the breeze is no longer breeze.

Ah, yes— wind!

Cherry blossoms fall—
a shower.
Petals rustle sideways on the street,
whirl like dervishes, too.

A waterfall of beauty rests
on my hair and clothes.

I laugh. Time defers.
This is joy.

I twirl round and round,
arms reaching up, head back.

I am nine years old again.

The sun smiles,
dazzling the blue River
with diamonds
bouncing on waves.

In these moments,
only one witness.

I laughed all the way home.

Thank you, thank you.

About the Art

Title: ‘Cherry Blossoms’
Copyright: 2026
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan & Quiet Helping Hands

I saw his boot first.

Unfiltered April sun blinded me until he stepped onto the porch.

We shook hands. His, warm and firm. Mine, cool, hesitant. We talked about the land where my log cabin sat. We discussed the road I needed: clear passage in and out, stone, not muddy ruts. You could use a bench under the window. I agreed without comment.

We walked the few paths open. He told me the names of old trees that stood tall. He pointed to an eagle’s nest. A barn owl sat on a limb, watching, then flew ahead to another branch. The man beside me lowered his voice and slowed our pace. He’s letting us see him. He feels safe. Move quietly. The owl knew safe harbor. I felt it, too.

He took me for lunch at a local place. I was reluctant. Time managed me. Clients managed me. He said, You’re very serious. I replied, I’m committed.

We spoke again about the land. Perhaps a barn. For what? He smiled. Horses. Noble beasts. I went quiet. A life’s dream to ride a horse. I don’t ride. I know nothing about horses. He was still smiling.

But I do.

He noted how little I ate. Dessert? Home-baked pies and cakes. I declined and moved to leave. Another two hours slipped by. I felt my day fade, but from what? Time was pliable for him. People walked in and out. Everyone knew him. More chatter and introductions. I felt restless. I need to go.

He took a scenic detour home along back roads through sprawling farmland and pastoral settings. Buildings built in the 1700s. Earlier. Old graveyards. He drove into the village below the mountain. Parked next to an ice cream parlor from another time. He ordered a sundae. I declined. His brow furrowed a bit; his blue eyes darkened a shade. This is homemade. I shook my head no. He ordered one for me anyway.

What do you do for fun? I truly didn’t understand. I started eating the sundae. The first spoonful, a taste of childhood, teen years, too. Smiles with Dad; giggles with girlfriends. I kept eating, slowly, while he told me the history of the village, the grand Esopus Creek running alongside it. Look! The gray water is cobalt blue at this hour. I heard the rushing water. We walked and sat next to it. He pointed out unique buildings, knew how old they were, and their purpose fifty years ago.

That sundae was my dinner. And it was more. I felt less weary. I smiled, and at one point I laughed aloud.

I was home at 7 p.m. Twilight’s shadows fell across the thick forest surrounding my cabin.

He didn’t extend his hand. Next weekend I’ll have this cleared. You’ll be happy, Ms. Morgan. I see a few minor things I can do, if you like. No extra cost.

The name is Lee Anne, Mr. Dixon. Call me Dave. You already know that. His voice deepened.

He drove down the road in his old pickup truck, stirring dust, until I could no longer see him.

About the Art

Title: ‘Another Time’
Copyright: Unknown
Source: Getty Images

The farmer’s wife found him—
half alive seeking milk
from lifeless teats.
Birthing took the old cat’s life.
He was her last.

The woman hand-weaned him.
Days. Weeks.

Dave brought him to me,
You need a barn cat.
He stayed.

Henry was restraint.
We were restraint.
Had to be.
He was feral.

He sat with me
on the small porch bench…
one foot away.

In winter, we watched snow fall.
In summer, thundering storms.
In autumn, we pondered the silver moon;
listened to the sound of leaves.

I drank tea.
He sipped cream from a saucer.
Henry sat straight, noble.
Purring.

He was large, sinewy—
fast.

He climbed the tree, snatched the nest,
eating the fledglings.
The mother screeched,
circling the tree.

At six months, he brought home a falcon.
How did he capture his predator?

The following morning,
a kaleidoscope of feathers formed a circle;
a talon at the center.
All lay outside my cabin door.

I was appalled,
intrigued, too.

Henry shone his reality,
not in metaphor,
but in blood and guts and beauty.
We sat in the hush of us
listening to raindrops.

Henry is dead.
I woke at 4 a.m.
Made tea.
Still, warmed his milk.

The mountain man knocked.
I found him under the old chestnut.
No harm. One drop of blood under his nose.

It rained all day.
I sat on our bench.

About the Art

Title: ‘Henry In Winter’
Copyright: 1999 (Photograph)
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

The candle burns to its nub.
The scent of incense departs.
My tea, now cold.

Opening my eyes,
tears stream down my cheeks.

Yet… I smile.

Clouds soften the morning light.
I set the breakfast table slowly.
Tears are gone.
So is the smile.

My mind fragments.
A pendulum swings
between the sweetness of spring
and a friend now adrift.

I sit. Not hungry.
Craving everything.

He arrives perched on a thin branch in high winds.
He returns when clouds reign—
the only color amid brown, sharp-edged things.

Hello, my friend. You visit often this week.
What have you to say?

He sits. I eat.
I speak with him. Silently.
He knows when I’m finished.
The limb is bare once more.

Angels are absent—human and unseen.
Who speaks?

At 82,
pain passes through me,
or settles in.

You are paying dues
for doing what you once loved.

I see it—
dancing, hard work, the body challenged.
So young. Graceful.

Nothing can hurt me.

Runner for decades
on New York City pavement.

Nothing can hurt me.

Motorcycle riding in my fifties.
Bubba, my horse—
wind in the face,
galloping uphill,
across meadows.

A time, long ago, in Camelot.

Nothing can hurt me.

It hurts now.
I refuse.

Hubris?

Embarrassing—
not walking straight, steady.
Where is the gracefulness
I assumed forever?

This terrifies me.

Is this humiliation, or humbling?

Where are the angels now?
Who saves, soothes, protects?

I ask. Silence.

Wait.

Birdsong greets my early mornings.
The cardinal keeps me company.

And memories—
recorded.
Radical acts of writing.

Fragments.
Passages.

The pendulum swings—
birth,
death.

A half smile returns
as the earth gives birth—again.

I pay attention
to small astonishments.

The red cardinal
on a thin branch in high winds.

How does he hold on?

How do I hold on?

I don’t know.

Dive deeper, Lee Anne.

No.
There are wounds.

Walk into them.

Who speaks to me?

You do.

so be it

About the Art

Title: ‘So Be It, Says She’
Copyright: 2026 (Photograph)
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

About The Art

Title: ‘To Create’
Copyright: 2026 (Photography/Painting/Wax)
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan