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Mending Days
The thought that whole days could be given over to mending seems remarkable now, as quaintly anachronistic as ragbags, or the inclination of entire neighborhoods of women to schedule their household...
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Solstice ~ A Time for Turning
Woodworker and carver, sailor, musician, rememberer – Gordon Bok is an American treasure. You may know his work. Two years ago I’d not heard his name and might have missed his music forever, were it...
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Hallelujah
Now that we have baked our cookies and trimmed our trees, now that we have wrapped our gifts and planned our dinners, now that we have hung stockings, sent greetings and set tables, assembled toys,...
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And So, We Begin Again
The sky lowers and the land disappears. A turning wind blankets the moon with sea-born fog, shrouding the contours of its glittering face. Harsh and brilliant above the fog, riding high behind...
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The Comet-Watchers
Green-eyed, aloof, prowling heaven’s alleyways with unexpected grace you take your ease on Saturn’s stoop then roam again the darkness, an elegant, celestial stray hungry for attention. Prone beneath...
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A Springtime Etheree
“Pollenaise” Rich tattered shadowed bits of sunlit life skip, scoot and scatter along the meadow’s edge, tracing paths of nascent spring, nudging lush, emerging blossoms, swirling away on rising...
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Those Days We Didn’t Die
Lingering at the breakfast table, an hour or two of chores already completed, he folds away the newspaper before turning to smile at the small, barefoot disturbance running into his kitchen. “Are you...
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A Second View of Toledo
El Greco, astonished, brushes color with a quickened hand, tips the canvas sunward to defy the failing light half-fearful that his flaming skies might fall, his rising shadows catch a nascent moon,...
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The Heart of the Flint Hills
To travel through the Flint Hills of Kansas is one thing. To stop, to spend time, to await the rising sun and bless the setting moon, to breathe in the remarkable sweetness of bottomland, pasture and...
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After the Journey
“Magi” ~ by G.C. Myers To set out under compulsion, to travel in ambiguity, to depend on little more than dreams and a star for guidance – such was the fate of the Magi. Tradition tells us the names of...
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Staking A Claim
Fence becomes a growing necessity, breaking hard soils the stuff of common life. Seed words stored up in the barn, winnows and rakes at the ready, sunrise and sunset measure spent days...
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Ice Cream for Supper
So little is needed. A dish. A spoon. Even the carton will do in a pinch if no one is watching, no one complaining, no one advising sweet moderation when offered the chance to keep...
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A Gift of Ordinary Time
Some days seem meant to pass unnoticed, filled with fading ferns or phlox, laundry blown both south and north by swirling, lifting winds. Tabled lilacs, fragrant, sweet, reclaim those passing hours,...
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The Shying of A Violet
So, shaded violet, sweetly bowered beneath these tendriled branches, why turn away from morning’s recognition? Avert your face from plucking hands? “True mystery,” sighs the bending bough. “A...
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Reclaiming Independence
Few of us remember our first birthday, or even our second. Those celebrations were less for us than for our parents, joined perhaps by a few siblings or other relatives. Presents mattered less than the...
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After Inauguration: A Poem for Us All
Fireborn The people yes The people will live on. The learning and blundering people will live on. They will be tricked and sold and again sold And go back to the nourishing earth for rootholds, The...
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The Poets’ Birds: Cranes
Sandhill cranes ~ Brazoria County, Texas I call my wife outdoors to have her listen, to turn her ears upward, beyond the cloud-veiled sky where the moon dances thin light, to tell her, “Don’t hear the...
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On Artifice In Spring
Spring’s First Paintbrush (Castilleja indivisa) Gild lilies if you must. Fit filigree ‘round stem or stamen; re-saturate the sky. Pretend your dew be diamonds, your webs a finer silk. Yet Spring —...
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The Poets’ Birds: Great Blue Heron
So heavy is the long-necked, long-bodied heron, always it is a surprise when her smoke-colored wings open and she turns from the thick water, from the black sticks of the summer pond, and slowly...
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Remembering That Purple Poem
Some years ago, I published “The Sentinel,” an essay about Florida environmentalist Charles Torrey Simpson and a pair of shells I found washed onto a Texas beach. The shells, a deep, rich purple, are...
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