Author: admin

It has been said that when Saint Ambrose was an infant, sleeping openmouthed in his crib, a swarm of bees flew into his mouth. Whether they stung him or flew out again is not recorded in the annals of the saints. It was also...

After brushing my long hair, I like to toss the redundant strands caught in the bristles out into the wind for birds to gather up and knit into their nests, imagining myself a valuable if inert addition to their lives. Once I...

How many hours I’ve scratched at dirt Or picked off pieces from dried leaves Or traced your name out on my skirt Or scolded God through handkerchiefs Or told you what I did that day Or read from poems you would read Or prayed...

I’ve checked the pasture horses from the fence. They like to watch me when I clean my paws But will not have me near them ever since That time I scratched one of them with my claws. I’ve walked the porch three times—still, no...

He’d seen himself led out into the yard: Tripping, struggling—dragged beside the guard. He’d seen his own feet stumble on the stairs. He’d seen those other two bound in their snares— Black bags over their heads tied off with...

I know that song that you just played From when I was at sea. Adrift—a voice would rise and fade With that same melody. Her words would lap against my boat From somewhere down below. Every dripping, splashing note Was tempting...

The longest limbs extend and bend over the road where men have marched off to their deaths. Their petals fall like snow, the raindrops stir the leaves. Branches quiver with each cold breath the wind makes, and I shiver at the...

when every cherry blossom, each pearl an oyster had to make is counted flawless, pure, a type of perfection nature remakes on a daily basis has me thinking about what else to take from your question. Sunrises, sun- sets, the way...

were a rusty, dried blood kind of color and shed copper drops on the broad sideboard cupboard under the window. Each time I came for a visit, there it was, brooding like a mother hen, refusing to leave its perch. Grandma would...

There’s nothing more about men I need to know, broken glass at my throat makes a hell of a chalkboard. It’s my third night walking backroads. My lunar witness is full over the connecting highway, weighs on spring branches...