Kelly Rogers

Writer focused on fiction for middle-aged women with spunk


When the sun kisses my hair through the breeze cracks of a shade bearing tree, I feel beautiful.

The sun nor the tree care about how old I am, for one, if not both, have been here longer than me.

In this moment, I don’t need to reach for anything. I am just here, feeling warmth, and I know how to be.

This is my time, my golden age, my soft waves settling randomly, when I am most free.


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