If only she could pull each page out of Lao’s book, stitch them end to end, and wear them as a scarf always.
Mags couldn’t stop pulling clothes out of hiding places in her room and laying them out. A cerulean dress she last wore to church on Easter Sunday, a houndstooth jacket, and a pair of emerald green Capri pants hung from her bedroom doorknob. She covered her bed with three different front-pleated floral dresses, her favorite …
The field lies like a still lake, an opaque film of silver or green—water or soil, apathy or memory—obscuring the mayhem underneath A tenebrous home once floated here. Inside: chrysalis, pupa, larvae, whatever I left those costumes in closets to mold over years ago. But, then again, my home was never on the ground. …
a poem about the uncertainty of our future
So, let our shadows do the talking. High noon and the dark circles under me and the saguaro are loud with sweat. By the time my shadow abandons me, it is stubborn, howling, more coyote than man; yours shrugs toward the cirrus clouds, my new horizon home.
A poem about appreciating living life without knowing the future.
This is the first photograph that I ever saw of my grandfather, Ralph James. A post about family, intrinsic ties, and the limitations of knowing our relatives only through documents. #52ancestors
What magic does the amulet summon?
you never know who you'll meet in the woods
"You get on now, miss. I know how your kind work. I feed you and the next thing I know twenty of your kin come to my door a-begging."