Writing

Clinging, the kitchen remembers my world in black and white, damn the color.

I refuse to admit I am starved for refuge.

Mom-capped Mom. She’s tired, slumped, surrounded by six little ones.

Everything we read, if we read it deeply enough, changes us.

The first sculpture that I made on my own was small and was carved from an old railroad tie.

How to Survive the Apocalypse is filled with strength and resilience.

So that one wrong class led me to the path of writing: poetry, story, novel, essays

Bees love catnip; they go crazy for it; afterward, we drowsed, full of honeyed sweetness like the bees that browse

In the plaza, he pirouettes, juggling, glittering mysteries.

This did not have to happen. No, none of this had to happen.

Homely, lonely night. Venus shines against vacancy.He doesn’t paint the bars that keep him so far from starry

We, the silver birch. Villagers say we are The Three Sisters.