for Tony Earley and after his fashion I’ve determined the quiet beauty of things is what I hearken to, the grace of a papery butterﬂy tipping over the purple frill at the tops of ironweed, the ﬁeld splayed up the hill and misty, the end of summer. Nothing like…
Hindman, Kentucky, November 18, 2012 Standing beside the tree invites belief, my spirit or soul answers an easy or crazy waving leaf, or even a motionless leaf, even in winter the stark unmoving branch
By now I’ve seen it all, the weird translucent yellow spider hauling her pale pearl of eggs, or the spores of the reddish fungus fuming out from its half-inch smokestack
Twenty years ago, I was cavorting around the Kentucky backroads one day and happened upon the village of Mackville. While there I briefly visited with a lady, Mrs. Leonard Carpenter, the proprietress of the general store, who was in a guff because she’d moments before shooed away an idle youth—whom…
Below the ridges, dim and low, the hollows and narrow valleys run, and pools of water prove a stream has been there once. Standing before a pool like these, painted with leaves dropped from the trees, I now believe a mind conceived this place and thought, it must be sunken…
People of sensibility like to admire a painting or some possession, but a different mind will linger over the bluish feather sticking out of the shot glass someone set on the windowsill
The spindly trunks of two trees have twisted twice around each other. This is what I see when I look up from reading. I’ve read the page on the right then turned to the left-hand page and read.
There’s a place near here called Chicken Bristle. It’s not a very hopeful name, but it’s out in the country and quiet. A handful of houses are clustered along a lane. The land is rolling and secret and dark.
I don’t know what to think, standing at the bottom of the hill in the woods. The bare trees reach up. The hill is to my right and on the left begins another, steeper hill.
for Amanda The dry vine from a kind of weed whose yield is pods is being flung out senselessly by the wind, and a scrap of the vine at that, the part still curled around the cedar branch