Some May Roses….and a poem.

May 11, 2018


Roses, May

The world is going to Hell in a Handcart, and there is  much turmoil today.  The political and social issues are thrust into our faces and the only way to escape is in the flower garden, hiding under foliage with the cats.

Regardless how you grow roses, in big pots or in the ground, they are a wonderful antidote to the chaos of life.

And society.

I am no expert on roses.  The trick  is finding roses that have the qualities of survival.  This can be tricky.  The English David Austen roses are lovely, but weak stemmed.  A rain shower can knock the blooms off. Climbers can be iffy, too.  I have several that I would recommend, a Madame Alfred Carriere, soft pink climber that is almost a constant bloomer.  The same with Graham Thomas, a butterscotch yellow.  Both of these are fragrant.  My neighbor, obviously not a gardener, said he had seen yellow roses in the stores, but had never seen them on the vine.  Something like that.  That made me laugh, because walking through the vegetable garden you get attacked by the Graham Thomas as it stretches out it’s stems and blossoms from the side of the house.  The Madame Carriere was 24×24 feet until we cut it down to do the siding.  It’s growing back with impunity.

Some of the very best roses are sturdy Tuscany reds, and the beautiful and prolific New Dawns.  I have two over an arbor and they are breaktaking.  I cut roses almost every day in the morning to put in the house, but most of them don’t last long.  Except the Tuscany.   Home Depot’s “Patio Roses” have turned out to be marvelous:  constant bloomers, reds and pinks and within a season you have to cut back because they will take over the garden and the world.

The one above, that silly red with white stripes is my hands down favorite.  I haven’t figured out what it is, but it’s the second year for it and it looks promising.  It’s crazy with buds so it should have a good showing in a week or so.  It makes me smile when I see it, and that is a good thing in life.

Roses, May 2

This is the luscious “New Dawn”.  It’s not quite at full pool yet inblooming but it will repeat over the summer a number of times. It’s a vigorous climber and great for a garden structure like a strong arbor. Smells like Ivory Soap.


Roses, May 3

Some New Dawn blooms I picked last night and put in a silver wine cooler.  They last about a day and a half in the house, but they are so beautiful, even in death.

Roses, May 5

“Wollerton Hall”, an English climber that has had a hard life.  I kept moving the poor thing for the last 3 years as we did construction on this old house.  This morning I noticed that it was blooming, finally, and this lovely bloom will be followed by about 5 other buds so far.  It’s decided it likes the afternoon sun because that is all it gets on the West side of the house.  The scent is like….cookies.

My dead aunt Barbara told me once that my grandfather, her father, was known for his rose garden.  He apparently had a knack with roses.  I have no idea what he grew, as he was long dead before I was born and no one is saying what kind of roses, but I would believe they were old China Roses and Tuscany.  We are so fortunate today to have so many selections to choose from. I guess I have a bit of his DNA with roses, but my gardens are so much easier to maintain.

New Roses Spriing 2018

A combination of New Dawn, an open faced Red, Sally Holmes rose and a random pink.

The one thing about roses is that they usually don’t disappoint.  My favorite was a Heritage rose, another David Austin that I had for 15 years before it finally gave up the ghost.  I would spring for another, but with 60 plus roses here, I would have to find a place.  Hope Springs Eternal when you are living with roses.

Spring Orgy

The roses are having an orgy.
They haven’t the decency to wait for the dark,
But ply their lust in the soft, morning light.

Randy Graham Thomas is leering.
Madame Carriere is blushing.
Her pink silk-petal gown flutters
As she twists coyly to avoid his embrace.

By 10am the sun warms their scents and foreplay is over.
The wind at 11am entwines the two.
Pistils and stamens are seriously ‘at it’
Brushing languorously over parts
And hour ago were covered discreetly.
At high noon in the heat of the day
Pollen is floating all over the air
And even the wide-eyed cats
Sitting under tender foliage are blushing.

The garden gnome is licking his lips
While a concrete hand creeps to his crotch.

This fall there will be rose-hips aplenty.
Red nipples packed with tiny seeds,
Evidence of a spring-time lust.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2018

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

“Doug Craig”, from “Memories of a Rotten Childhood”.

May 11, 2018

Roses East 3

About twelve years ago, I started writing “Memories of a Rotten Childhood”.  I don’t remember why, but for some reason I needed to get down those memories before age made them disappear.  I have read some of these to my father’s family, and some friends, and they were encouraging.  I think it also became a way of therapy, as childhood wasn’t an easy time with two parents who were ‘acting out’.  

Doug Craig became an important person in my earlier life.  He was a devoted friend who deserved better in life.

Lady Nyo


We met one fall, now years ago, when we were no longer young. I was running from a mean early marriage. Doug was just running.

It was 3 years since the end of the Vietnam War, and Doug had plenty of ghosts to run from. He was to be shipped out, and the night before his platoon, company, whatever it was called….was attacked. Doug woke up to gunfire in his tent, and got shrapnel in his torso, mainly his stomach if I remember right.

Doug was a kid I grew up with in the wilds of New Jersey back in the 60’s. His father was the large animal vet in Princeton. It was always a chancy issue to open the two refrigerators in their 1740’s house on Stockton Road. One held food, and the other specimens. It was a fearful thing for a child unaware of which door held which. I can still hear the booming voice of this Scottish man yelling at all of us. We lived in terror of his voice, but he was one of the kindest and gentlest men we knew. Clearly a case of his bark worse that his bite.

Doug’s mother was the picture of elegance: two shelties on two matching settees in the sitting room, a glowering portrait of some infamous relative over the fireplace, and his mother warm and welcoming. We all loved this family. Doug came from good stock. Too bad he was so crazy.

We had a bluegrass band back then, called Marrowbone Creek Vagrants, made up of neighborhood kids. I believe this band, in some form…with different name changes, still is viable. Sort of like a vampires convention when the kids come back to the stomping grounds of the New Jersey countryside.

Music wasn’t the only thing we had in common. Motorcycles, and the attendant accidents, horrible, property destroying stunts, and basically goofing off. But music was the river that ran through us. Today for many of these guys and gals…it still is.

I came home that fall day with two shotguns. One a 20 gauge Mossberg, and the other one a 12 gauge Ithaca. My father gave me a weird look when he picked me up from the airport. He was a pacifist and wouldn’t have a gun on the property, except for a Benjamin Franklin air pistol, which shot rivets. That he kept for shooting walnuts out of the crooks of walnut trees. He was a marksman during WW11 and besides a bow, he would not have weapons near him. Perhaps being in a B-24 for most of the war was deadly enough.

Doug and I decided to go hunting. I just wanted a chance to shoot off those shotguns. Living in urban Atlanta didn’t give me many chances. And the woods where it was legal to shoot off guns were miles away.

We ‘hunted’ all over the back of my parent’s property. Mostly cut down soybean fields, and what we were looking to kill, I didn’t really know. I DID know that I was a failure when it came to birds. We have those big pheasants up in New Jersey, the ones who come up low in front of you, and wheel into the sun so you can’t see or follow them well. And I had the problem of automatically flipping the safety on the gun after every shot. I never could break myself of this, and don’t know where it came from.
But hunted we did. I should have realized Doug ‘hunted’ differently than any other person I knew. He crouched down, held the gun low and crept through the underbrush. I didn’t realize then what I was looking at was a man who had just come back from the wars. Apparently Doug was trained, now irreversibly, as a soldier.

He was a very brave man. He hunted with me, a real nincompoop when it came to hunting. We scared up a young rabbit, and I kept shooting at it as it jagged away. Unfortunately, I was mostly shooting at Doug’s boots, and it is still a wonder that I didn’t add to his shrapnel wounds. Doug got the rabbit.

Then we decided our luck would turn better if we trespassed on Old Man Staats land. Full of woods, and we were bound to find something. Doug found a pheasant there, and bagged it on one shot.

Then we got stupid and decided to go ask Staats if we could hunt on his land. He thought about it a moment, and said ‘no’. Fine with us, we had bagged that pheasant on his turf, stowed it behind a tree, and besides, we were tired of hunting. It was turning colder, and we were hungry.

We went home, Doug to his house on River Road. He was living with other varmints and it was an old farm house, looking none the better for Doug living there.

I remember skinning the rabbit. I had read something about this, so at least I knew what to do. Mostly. I do remember cutting off the rabbit head, and throwing it out over the ravine. It slowly revolved in the air, looking at me reproachfully, with every revolution. Thirty some years later and I still remember that stare.

I cooked the rabbit for my father. My mother wouldn’t have a thing to do with my rabbit stew. My father said he hadn’t had rabbit in thirty years, and pronounced it ‘good’. The pheasant was another issue. I plucked the feathers, saving the tail for some future decoration, and draped bacon over the back of it. Problem was this: pheasant was full of birdshot and dried up quickly. Eating it was a problem, so I threw it into the ravine for the raccoons.


I threw the rabbit pelt up on the copper kitchen roof. Why, I don’t know. I do know that my mother bitched about it for about a year until my father or someone retrieved it. Should have been well cured by then.

Doug and I didn’t see each other again until my father lay in the hospital with a stroke twelve years later. Doug would take me late at night to visit him, and spent hours just talking. I was there for a week, but it took my father nine months of recovery to die.

Doug was a good friend. We both were running from ghosts, many kinds of ghosts. He had an old Seth Thomas clock I bought from him. He carefully packed it up and shipped it months later. Doug was also a very fine Kentucky rifle maker. He was going to make me a gun. Doug, once he focused his scattered and fried, mind could excel in anything.

Two years after my father died, Doug died on the streets of Philly one night. He was mugged and lay in the morgue until identification was possible and Dr. Craig was contacted.

I think Doug was our first childhood friend to die. Perhaps there were others claimed by the war. But I don’t remember. I do remember that all of us were in shock: Doug, though living and behaving always on the edge, seemed invincible. Didn’t he survive Vietnam? How could something like this take him?

If it could take him, it could take the rest of us. Life has no guarantees, obviously.

I think all of us have a Doug Craig in our lives, somewhere. They are the people we miss the most because they have lived the fullest of lives. We know that they are part crazy, but that was also part of the times, and some of their charm.

We live through them at times because they are braver than us.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2017

“Basho on Poetry: Learn from the Pine”

May 9, 2018

waterlily in our pond.

In rereading these words of Basho, I am struck to the core.  Oddness and plainness speaks to not only haiku but so much of poetry.  I struggled to learn Japanese aesthetics but I missed something fundamental.  I think Basho hits the nails on the heads.  There is so much ‘truth’ to what he says here that I want to understand and experience this honest approach to poetry, as Basho details below.  I keep reading it, over and over, and each time something else is revealed in his words.

These are excerpts from a rather long document by Basho, considered to be the top haiku poet of the 17th century. I am presenting these thoughts of his because they ‘make clear and plain’ what Basho believes is the correct approach to haiku. Today, lots of poets are attempting haiku, and missing by a wide streak. This is sad, but also represents a lack of study, perhaps pure laziness, and as one poet said: “Every thing I learned about haiku, I learned from the internet.”

This is especially sad, but an honest statement from one poet. There are enough books on haiku out there, and by masters of haiku, too, to read and learn from. That is not to say that haiku is easy. It looks easy, but isn’t. At least attending to some of words of poets like Basho will give us a hint.

Perhaps these words will help in our forming our own haiku. I offer some of my own, but these were formed before I had read Basho. Perhaps readers will see the struggle to form haiku. Writing haiku is definitely a learning process that should take a long time of study and contemplation.

Lady Nyo


Learn about the pines from the pine, and about bamboo from the bamboo.
Don’t follow in the footsteps of the old poets, seek what they sought.
The basis of art is change in the universe. What’s still has changeless form. Moving things change, and because we cannot put a stop to time, it continues unarrested. To stop a thing would be to halve a sight or sound in our heart. Cherry blossoms whirl, leaves fall, and the wind flits them both along the ground. We cannot arrest with our eyes or ears what lies in such things. Were we to gain mastery over them, we would find that the life of each thing had vanished without a trace.

Make the universe your companion, always bearing in mind the true nature of things—mountains and rivers, trees and grasses, and humanity—and enjoy the falling blossoms and the scattering leaves.

One should know that a hokku is made by combining things.
The secret of poetry lies in treading the middle path between the reality and the vacuity of the world.


One must first of all concentrate one’s thoughts on an object. Once the mind achieves a state of concentration and the space between oneself and the object had disappeared, the essential nature of the object can be perceived. Then express it immediately. If one ponders it, it will vanish from the mind.

Sabi is the color of the poem. It does not necessarily refer to the poem that describes a lonely scene. If a man goes to war wearing stout armor or to a party dressed up in gay clothes, and if this man happens to be an old man, there is something lonely about him. Sabi is something like that.

When you are composing a verse, quickly say what is in your mind; never hesitate a moment.

Composition must occur in an instant, like a swordsman leaping at his enemy.
Is there any good in saying everything?

In composing hokku, there are two ways: becoming and making. When a poet who has been assiduous in pursuit of his aim applies himself to an external object, the color of his mind naturally becomes a poem. In the case of the poet who has not done so, nothing in him will become a poem; he makes the poem through an act of personal will.

There are three elements in haikai: Its feeling can be called loneliness (sabi). This plays with refined dishes but contents itself with humble fare. Its total effect can be called elegance. This lives in figured silks and embroidered brocades but does not forget a person clad in woven straw. Its language can be called aesthetic madness.

Language resides in untruth and ought to comport with truth. It is difficult to reside in truth and sport with untruth. These three elements do not exalt a humble person to heights. They put an exalted person in a low place.

The profit of haikai lies in making common speech right.

Haikai needs more homely images, such as a crow picking mud snails in a rice paddy.

In humanity, there can be something called a windswept spirit. A thin drapery torn and swept away by the stirring of the wind. Indeed, since beginning to write poetry, it (this windswept spirit…this dissatisfaction (my word) knows no other art than the art of writing poetry and therefore it hangs on to it more or less blindly.
Poetry is a fireplace in summer or a fan in winter.

How invincible is the power of poetry to reduce me (Basho) to a tattered beggar!
It is the poetic spirit called furabo that leads one to follow nature and become a friend with things of the seasons. Flowers, moon, insects, etc. For those who do not see the flower are no different from barbarians, and those who do not imagine the moon are akin to beasts. Leave barbarians and beasts behind and follow nature and return to nature.
The bones of haiku are plainness and oddness.
From: Basho on Poetry.

Lady Nyo’s examples of early haiku.

Pale lavender sky
Balances the moon and sun
The scale shifts to night.

Under the dark moon
I awaited your return
Only shadows came.

A swirl of blossoms
Caught in the water’s current
Begins the season.

Dogwoods blooming
The crucifixion appears
White moths in the night.

(this last haiku is my favorite…)

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2018



“Haiku Mind”….

May 7, 2018


(“Daffodils”, watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2003)

Well, attempting it.  These haiku are some of my very first and are hit and miss.  My study of haiku was slight when I began to write them, so I have a lot to catch up on.  The study of haiku no michi (following the way of haiku in daily life) is a way to open the heart and mind to the present moment.  Attempting now a more formal study of this ‘michi’.

Lady Nyo

Pale lavender sky
Balances the moon and sun
The scale shifts to night.


Fallen leaves crackle.
Sparrows add the treble notes.
Season’s musical.


Dogwoods blooming
The crucifixion appears
White moths in the night.


Fall’s crispness compels
Apples to tumble from trees.
Worms make the journey.


The frost at morning
Makes the birds plump their feathers
Squirrels add chatter.


A swirl of blossoms
Caught in the water’s current
Begins the season.


Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2018






“The Kimono”, Chapter 27

May 4, 2018


THE MOON PEEKED THROUGH the distant trees below Gassan Mountain in the east. This low to the horizon its color was a dark coppery-pumpkin as it hovered in the evening sky. The rising moon caused the drunken men to pause in their good-humored noise. How many times had the full moon risen yet the beauty of its appearance, the miracle of its closeness, always produced awe? A servant came around the screen and whispered something to Lady Nyo. She, in turn, went to Mari and in a very low voice said that Lord Tetsu had requested her company. Lady Nyo fussed a bit with Mari’s face, patted rice powder over her features, combed out her hair and gathered it halfway down her back with a twist of red paper. From a small wooden box, she brought out a flask of scent and applied it between Mari’s breasts. With a nod and a sigh, she was finished and bowed to Mari with a small smile.


Mari followed a serving girl to the lake where she found Lord Tetsu. He gave a slight nod in greeting and turned, walking further down to a small stand of cherry trees. Here, there were no lanterns hanging from the branches. Only the brightness of the full moon and a small brazier gave light. Quilts had been placed for them on the ground. The servant disappeared, fading silently into the shadows surrounding the grove of cherries. Dragonflies dipped and swooped along the shoreline. The sound of the water lapping at the beach was amplified by the silence around them.

They were far enough away that they could not hear the others. The sky darkened and rose-tinted clouds appeared over the water. Lord Tetsu sipped his sake and said nothing. Mari didn’t want to break the beauty of the young night with conversation. It was enough to enjoy the silence and the moon reflecting in the water.

Suddenly, Lord Tetsu made a soft exclamation and pointed to some rocks at a distance, farther down the beach. “There. Do you see kitsune? She has come for her own hanami.” Night was replacing dusk and the shoreline was dissolving into shadows. Mari could barely make out the small form of a fox. She darted back and forth, from rock to rock, rolling over those at the water’s edge and pouncing on something, probably a crayfish. A few moments later, the moon had risen a little higher and beamed across the water. Mari could see the russet coat of the fox. It had a tail that looked tipped in gold, illuminated by the moonlight.

“Kitsune has a long and gilded tail.

She comes at night down to the glistening lake

The moon rises to light her way.” 

Lord Tetsu’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. Mari was caught, spellbound by his words. How exact, how clever was his tanka, within a breath’s sighting of the fox! Mari knew she would have struggled with her thoughts, cast aside her impressions and lost the immediacy of the moment. With Lord Tetsu, it was as natural as breathing. She turned her head to look at him as the moon went dark with a flock of passing clouds. Lord Tetsu’s features were silhouetted against the shadows of the grove behind them.

 

How serene he appeared. Mari touched the silk of his sleeve. He looked down at her small white hand and smiled as the moon reappeared with its soft brilliance. The water was like a black mirror reflecting the moon, so still and calm. Lord Tetsu drew Mari close and stroked her hair. She could smell sake on his breath and the scent of sandalwood from his gown. Mari put her hand inside his kimono, on his chest, and felt the soft beating of his heart. With all the strangeness of her present world, with all that was unknown before her, this – the warmth of his skin, the scent of him – at least was real, with no unsettling magic. She’d had enough of magic and the superstitions that plagued this century and place. Mari shivered. Lord Tetsu chuckled and drew her closer.

“The moon is clear.

I escort a lovely girl

frightened by a fox.

Mari knew the verse to be Bashō’s, and a famous one at that. She also knew Lord Tetsu had changed the word “boy” to “girl”. Lord Tetsu loosened the string of his trousers and pulled aside his robes. He laid down on the quilt and pulled Mari over him, making her straddle his hips. Without a word, he pushed her carefully arranged kimonos up over her hips and off her shoulders. He held her breasts, now exposed to the moonlight, in his large hands and bent her to him. Only her obi kept her robes around her. It had been so long since they had made love, right before her miscarriage months ago. She groaned as desire flooded her, making her aroused. Lord Tetsu, his own desire evident, wasted little time. Pulling her arms around his neck, he held her to him like a vise, rocking Mari with his motion. Seeking her mouth, he finally kissed her as their coupling ended.

Later, Lord Tetsu wrapped them together in quilts. Mari slept, her head pillowed on his shoulder, the warmth of his body a further comfort. It was still spring, not near summer at all, and the nights were cold this close to Gassan Mountain.


Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

Slipping in some photos of roses in the new front rose garden.  Tsuki stalking a chipmunk in last photo.  Mimi on the hunt.

Roses East 3Front Door House Spring May


Spring Roses in the garden.

May 4, 2018

This is the second year for the arbor and the rose garden.  The front roses bloomed early and the heavy rains beat them down.  They are just recovering.  Have seeded for grass, but the hens have been out.  The roses on the arbor are  “New Dawn”.  Those two roses were planted there 20 years ago, and they smell like Ivory soap.  They are constant bloomers, but mostly glorious in the Spring.

The roses in the vase are from a few of the roses in the garden.  We now have over 60 roses on the property and what are spectacular are the climbers….Mde Alfred Carriere, (1848, France) and the Graham Thomas, a pale yellow prolific bloomer through the summer.  On the end over the chimney is a Cecile Brunner….a gorgeous tiny rose with a huge scent.  They are heaviest bloomers in the spring, and a bit more in the autumn.

Lady Nyo

New Roses Spriing 2018

New Roses Spring number 2

Roses are easy to grow….you just have to know the properties of each species. I used to bother, but now?  There are old roses that produce beautifully, “New Dawn”, Mister Lincoln, OLWeeks, many others, but these new ‘patio’ roses are the bomb.  So easy and within a year you have to clip back vigorously.  Dogs (4) and hens in the back gardens make it hard to grow things but they can be managed.

O.L. Weeks rose.jpg “O.L. Weeks”, prolific but scentless.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

“Muses”, for Read Toads poetry

May 3, 2018


(My Garden Spot…watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2003)

I am my own muse.
I never did believe
In them.
Too shady, too fleeting
To depend upon their presence.

Like a song on the air,
They floated away before
I got attached, dependent
On their offerings.

They never showed up when I needed them,
Leaving me holding empty hands.

I am my own muse
With the pain it brings
With the pain of life
I can’t escape.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2018


A Few Paintings.

May 2, 2018

These are not new but I am thinking of taking a break from writing after “The Kimono” gets published.  And painting more and finishing watercolors I have started and haven’t finished.  LOL!

Lady Nyo





Savannah Birds

All these, except the first one, are watercolors.  The last one was the cover of “Song of the Nightingale”, published on, 2015.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

Kimono Cover


Atlanta Real Estate Market and how it swings.

May 1, 2018

snowfall 2017 5

Living in Atlanta since 1969, and living here in Capitol View since 1973, what is happening is exciting and disturbing.  I bought my house for very little money. The neighborhood back then was ‘in transition’.  That’s code by the city and real estate agents for a neighborhood turning from white to black.  It has been the process for over 30 years in these surrounding neighborhoods.  Capitol View is three miles south of downtown Atlanta.

These neighborhoods were given over to Section 8 slumlords who rented to some of the worst elements of any ‘community’.  Criminal activity was rampant.  The Atlanta City Council representatives did nothing except keep any development outside of chicken wing places and Family Dollar stores.  It was a race between the coroner to pick up the old white ladies and the dog pound to pick up their miniature white poodles.  We didn’t see another white couple settle in CV for almost 30 years.

Now?  It’s interesting what is happening.  We have been getting calls, postcards, these letters from agents saying they ‘want to buy your home!’  For cash.  Even real estate agents from Linked In and other venues are contacting us wanting to ‘be part of our list’.  This is funny.  Yesterday I was contacted on Linked IN by an agent that has never spoken to me, but has dealings in CV.  I know who she is, but she hasn’t  been at all interested in our neighborhood until the new boom.  Also, we have received cards from agents who were deeply involved in mortgage fraud, moved away and now?  They want to be friends.  They raped this neighborhood (and others) and they are now back for more.

The housing prices here are pushed by this new Beltline.  We are right behind it, and can see people walking, cycling on the ‘path’.  And the pricing?  Our houses that were bought for the twenties and thirties years ago are going for $300,000 to $400,00.00 dollars. And now we have a bunch of white slumlords who are looking at these houses as cash cows.  They do minimal work to restore, rent them out, and sit back in Suwanee, etc. (North Georgia) and watch the dollars roll in.  Renting here is over $2000.00 per month.  And many that were on the market for close to 400 thousand have defective restoration.  But people….are clamoring for these houses.  The lots are a 1/4 acre.  A few a half acre.

I know quite a number of my neighbors who are older, retired and looking to move to wherever old people move to.  And I will not give these alligator agents any help with this.  Many of my neighbors have died off.  And many haven’t, and most of these I want around.  Thirty years is a long time to get to know people and the golden ones have floated to the surface.  They are priceless.

They don’t deserve to be fed to the swamp.  As we age, we haven’t gotten all the ‘good’ out of our historic (1880) house.  We are contemplating what color for the paint job.  We still are planting rose gardens and landscaping.  It never ends.  Just our energy does.

So to those opportunist agents out there?  Take a powder and know we already have your number.  It’s in the woodstove.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

“Moon Child”, from “Song of the Nightingale”

April 26, 2018

via “Moon Child”, from “Song of the Nightingale”

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