frost in the night, shining at dawn, melting at noon flowers give up the ghost on black funeral stalks I come with the clippers…
Category:
Poetry
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between summer and fall between one political convention and the other between the full blue moon and the next new moon between holiday and…
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lying naked on a warm February night outside under a full moon, ripe for conception: then twenty year’s labor to bring your story forth …
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June 25th marked a year since Douglas and I moved from our house in the woods to High Valley The last time I posted…
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The sun has moved far enough to the north that early light now finds the far end of the pond. In early Fall, I’d…
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Six months ago come Christmas Day my husband and I moved from our house in the woods in the fold of a stream valley…
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Watching the mists this morning, I realized that I might have gotten the clock reversed in my mind, and the mists are in fact…
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my news: from the pondhis from the wide world beyondwe meet at breakfastI report water lilieshe reports London riots I get up these days…
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Of course High Valley is familiar. My first stay was a two week stint at High Valley’s summer camp at age eleven. I was warned…
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I have not posted for awhile. I have nothing–or nothing new–to say about the elections or anything else topical or current. This is just…