My Grandmother Comes Back as Springtime Her eyes open—bluebells and gentian her cheeks shine apple blossom pink. Her toes uncurl…
I have places to go but don’t I’m sitting in a soft green chair by the hissing fire with Mickey…
Whispers of Things I Don’t Understand I cruise hours of the night wondering what it means to be human, to…
Because We Are Nomads What traveler would dare to tell her tale – even in her middle years, pausing as…
The Farmhouse I inherit browns and greens. I wait for someone to say it’s all in the past now so…
Winter’s Lonely Witness I like to be left alone to sort I begin with the domain of real things …
My Grandfather's Last Supper It was vintage Da Vinci, Jesus and disciples making blessings at their long table hung over…