poems
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Monday morning. What should be a fresh start to a week frequently feels like a Normandy beach landing. Before my eyes have time to adjust to the pre-dawn twilight, my alarm shocks me to attention. My vessel, the warm confines of my down-quilted bed, arrives suddenly on the shores of a new day, and, whether
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Few people probably agonize as much as I do (at times) about what words will follow that blinking cursor on the screen. How should I reply to that text? How should I phrase this email? Should I even write anything at all? Usually, we don’t take the time to think before we reply. I know
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The deepening ground, both as a site and poem, emerged from my recent fascination with Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time Quintet. More specifically, it took root (pun intended) in my mind after listening to A Wind in the Door during a long car trip. I knew I’d have to come back to the book
the deepening ground 