A whistler claims the springtime air.
His rhythm stirs the water fair,
And swans, in envy, fly away,
Resigned to cry another day.
The whistler has no thing to mourn,
Unlike pedestrians forlorn.
For meadows come from storms of rain—
Small price for color we shall gain!
Dear whistler, never slow your tune.
Let it last through the afternoon,
And—if you please—into the night.
Your cheery song will set things right.
Hello,
Welcome to my cozy corner of the internet. This blog will be dedicated to all things books and reading, which happen to be my obsessions. Note the faint scent of coffee in the air; coffee is a must for me.
I will be sharing book reviews for reads that I enjoy. I’ll also be posting updates about my life as an indie author. Since I’m exploring the classics, expect the occasional poem or short piece as I experiment.
For centuries, land-bound descendants of Merpeople have been confined to hidden districts. Read The Sea Rose and sequel The Sea King if you wish to read their stories.
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Miss Marjorie Brahms, daughter of a mysterious wizard known by the townsfolk as Bamoy, is having a bizarre autumn. Her father, Johann, had reasons for purchasing an abandoned house situated in the middle of a graveyard in which to raise his family. That did not mean that evil spirits could never find them.
Mariella Hunt 
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