August It’s the time of year that steals away slowly as the red clay road, its banked tire treads, spackled…
The Pumpkin Field Being just a poor British boy grown where London’s roots defile Saxon towns, common woods and meadows,…
Geese Over the icy pond, they hang north, the way we might cling to hope. The sun blinks, burrows under…
Flyover Country In Indiana I would stare at the birthing of contrails by jets heading west filled with…
Tomatoes She stopped at the tomato vines as if to hug them, as if to grow on a vine like…
Winter Birth Fluffed hens cluck but black and black in the bitter night in the brooder house they cannot see…
Eventuality At some point after my father died my mother said: Life’s no fun anymore. I don’t know what she…
Hello, I Love You When I want to power up, I use my witchy voice and say, All hail, Macbeth,…