a breeze blows across the front porch of the heart — the song settles like an old dog circling until it’s just right the sadness hangs like the ferns we will put up once it gets warmer the last aromas of dinner have followed us out and will find their way into the darkness once…
The end of March carries much significance. These are the days of March Madness when we watch basketball more than any other time of year. These are the days that mark at least the promise of Spring. These days are the gentle base path to Opening Day of the baseball season. And these last days…
I have walked with a limp all day my ankle bandaged, cane in hand, no great story — I sprained it with one simple step off of a crumpled concrete sidewalk; the same ankle I turned twice carrying our sick dog down the stairs a few years ago, and then again missing the last marble…
These two quotes crossed my path today. A person is a kind of sacrament: something made of molecules by which we become aware of something else which is not made of molecules. — Sydney Carter Christianity is art and not money. — William Blake Here is where they took me. paint me a picture bread…
I’ve carried a picture of the sunrise in the pocket of my mind all day long — the memory of this March morning: the promising chill and the sunlight that snuck up like a stage whisper, reminding me of . . . autumn. I know, I know — spring is not yet fully alive or…
After staring at the screen for some time tonight, and with more important things to talk about, I’m sure, even as I grieve the loss of an hour’s sleep tonight, here is what I found: savings sonnet the earth had a way of tilting it’s head to set up the space for each season…
who knows how many pictures of you I’ve taken how many times we’ve walked down our street — in sun and snow — on our way to coffee and conversation yet you still steal my heart in the simplest of ways the singlest of frames the hope and ache of a lifetime caught…
I have work to do this morning but I keep running into poems that give me pause and pull my gaze out my second-story window to the dance of sunshine and shadows on the fence line, the blanket of dead leaves turning to soil and the trees, their bare branches reaching or — perhaps —…
I wrote this poem several years ago, and I thought of it this morning. the morning after Mary rose before sunrise; the baby was still sleeping, as was Joseph and most of the animals, except for one cow who looked a little sheepish. The shepherds were long gone. In their excitement, they had not cleaned…
The first time you came to Boston it was so cold; the wind bit us at the bus stop. You pulled me close and asked, “Am I still wearing pants?” then you laughed. When you first came to Durham — our first Christmas in our new home — we were snowed in. You looked…