Poetry

Ruts

I dream gone home about ruts, an old road we don’t use where the rain wash has worn from trails shallow gullies that curve as they twin down the hillside, crushed exposed sandstone, yellow layered,

Spring

In memory of Martha One winter in the late afternoon my aunt and I took a drive out into the countryside and watched as the sun began to set over icy fallow farm fields its shallow oblique light the very thing she wanted me to see because it was beautiful.…