The little piece of newspaper, crisp and dark with age, flutters out of the gritty space between the fridge and the cabinet. I am cleaning the house while my wife is at school and at first I don’t understand.

They approach in hungry morning light, treading the path to the ridge and the row of giant’s teeth grown crooked with the ages

Chad, an aspiring author, sank into his easy chair and drifted into a
reverie.

Writing is both a way of making life more liveable and of making ourselves more whole. Words have a being-ness: when we write poetry, we tap into a network of resonances.

today, Christmas Eve,
my granddaughter visiting
her bright eyes – her faith

The magic of growing things, its tangible beauty, I did not understand.

this fresh morning
so much like the others …
yet starlings shape-shift

calm river
again, his fishing line
caught on a tree