Foot Massage My parents never danced in the kitchen— no flamboyant dip in a red silk dress, no rakish tilted…
When you moved to Kansas City I wonder if you miss the Flint Hills driving west, the way they glowed…
The Poet Crosses the Border Between Now and Then . . . the artist needs time in which the raw…
That Night We Were Ravenous Driving from Stephenville in the late October dusk -- the road swooping and disappearing ahead…
Grouse Gap The willows stir with warblers, juncos Late July, and the mountain is burning Moving from forest into smoke…
Artist’s Statement: Although I am a painter and sculptor, I have always thought that if I had something important enough…