I have mourned lost days when I accomplished nothing of importance. But not lately. Lately, under the lunar tide of a woman’s ocean, I work my own sea-change: turning grains of sand to human eyes. I daydream after breakfast while the spirit of egg and toast
It all starts with the weather. Comes a day when summer finally gives in to the faintest freshet of chill and a slim new light and just like that, you’re gone. Wild in love with the autumn proviso. You can see that the standing trees are all busy lighting themselves up ember-orange around the hemline, starting their…
Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is nothing else upon earth that I desire beside thee. —Psalm 73:25, RSV The road, crowned with undisturbed gravel, where once a killdeer dared build a nest, lay four grey mottled eggs, each pivoted toward an unmarked center,
My mother’s hands pinned patterns she unfolded, thin brown as last year’s leaves, onto cotton, rayon, double-knit, velvet,
In her memory, the hive sat in the side yard, echoing family rituals and routines. Summer mornings, workers would swarm the basil plant on the porch. They bothered no one—not even Dale, whose deck chair always sat close by. Maisy could scarcely think of when she had ever been stung…
Even the ground feels aggrieved, steeped in the death spittle of Confederate greys, tears of miners’ brides, split shine from a last run with the law.
Recently I was asked to talk about the experience of having one’s work rejected, so I began by listing highlights of such low points in my own writing life. The one from the high school teacher who said I couldn’t have written the poem I turned in so I must…
An overly sensitive heart is an unhappy possession on this shaky earth—Goethe I’ve run out of verbs on the shoulder of I-75. Semis barrel, no, blast, no, thunder past my blown-out Outback, the shimmy I ignored for thirst of home, tire that looked fine
Under the old redbud in the boulevard, sound umbrellas our heads, lifted as to thunder. Near oh near, they cry above us, and together, though deaf in their midst, we speak the names we have learned in lives brief and long. Cicada, says my granddaughter, given by her mother.
Hand reaching backwards through time, and which was I? The murderer or the murdered? Likely, never a noble dressed in lace, not even a damn general.