zacchaeus when I think of the tiny tax collector clinging to the tree waiting for Jesus to pass by I imagine my father there a short man with low self-esteem willing to go out on a limb hoping love would call him by name somehow my mother is there too taking Jesus by the arm…

Last night, Ginger and I got to go to the Red Sox game, thanks to our friends Fez and Maggie. It was our first time in the park in five years. As I reflected on the train ride back today, I channelled Robert Frost. Stopping by Fenway on a Chilly Evening Whose house this is…

A pilgrimage is a journey set in a story. — Paul Elie, interview for On Being (as best I can remember the quote) narrative I love to tell the story says the old hymn— not I love to tell the doctrine; we do well to read in the beginning as another way of saying once…

prine time the first time I saw John Prine we were both much younger he sang fish and whistle—you forgive us and we’ll forgive you—and then the one about the angel that I learned too the last time I saw him was the night before his cancer had returned and he sang for almost three…

workout I started the day by going to the gym (things I rarely write for 400, Alex), wishing the process of lessening my presence on the planet did not involve rooms with pumped up jams and rows of televisions blasting morning shows. I came prepared with headphones and the podcast of a poet—Mary Oliver, and…

I spent the first ten days of April back in Durham, doing some book things, some cookies business, and seeing good friends in a place that feels like home to me. In the process, I haven’t kept my promises to write each day during April. Here is my defense. wordless I know I’ve been silent,…

window the late afternoon light is the color of gratitude wouldn’t you say as the shadows grow longer and the coming chill pulls us closer what else is there but thank you Peace, Milton

question It”s Opening Day . . . (well, the Red Sox start tomorrow) I have moved from coffee shop to brewery trying to catch the metaphor. Is it as simple as the pitcher misses the strike zone, the catcher misses the tag, and I miss my mother, who has been gone half a season and…

I had every intention of using National Poetry Writing Month as an impetus to keep me writing regularly during April, and then I spent the day traveling yesterday and missed Day One. So, I will begin my quest on Day Two. suspended animation I’m sitting at a shared table late on a Saturday morning in…

perspective the daffodils bow their heads in the early morning rain without explanation, on this day after resurrection. I am left to find resonance in both reverence of redemption and the weight of the water. the raindrops hang like tears on the window, or tiny jewels, depending on where I am. my coffee cup is…