Category: Art
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White rose in November blooming
as if you cannot wait for the snow, as if you open wide to remind us that November holds both summer and winter. We learn from you to prepare for any crazy thing, to carry our burdens lightly so we might dare to bloom if given even half a chance.
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It is no wonder
Is it a wonder that I am more drawn to watching the birds flit than to reading your words, again? You would not blame me I think. They dive in the mist over loch and glen, feathers soaked from the constant drip. No tree a harbor, being waterlogged as well; some find cover under our…
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An exercise
Stones are easy to stack when they have been split and sanded. The challenge is to balance uneven ones, those shaped by nature’s peculiar whims, or those left to their own devices — like feral children bent on revolt, intent on upsetting our day’s order. They insist that the stacker sit down to watch how…
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When the cold wind blows
Does it startle you, shake you from oblivion, draw you to attention, to your fear? Or do you turn away huddled, covering your head and shoulders, shrugging to save all the warmth you can in that last instant before you are swimming in the frigid air, overtaken by a wave capsizing, ripping even your feet…
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Late Sunday prayertime
How the rain pours down with heavy boots on our roof. We hover close to our papers someways happier for the howling outside. Is it so because we feel seasons change and thank the gods? Is it so because we are dry and thank the gods? Or perhaps a shiver drives us thus? It does…
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To William Stafford
Upon opening The Way It Is after a week that convinces me that this dark marathon is much longer than I expected, even in my most hardened moments Wake up my soul, I ask, please. It lies sleeping somewhere under a pile of emails, Congressional edicts, cruel comprehensions, that I have been picking through all…
Poems from in between 