Ducks
-
Sunday night. The eve before Monday morning always leaves me wanting more weekend. And yet room 209 awaits and tomorrow the bell will ring at 8:04 a.m. and I will continue unpacking e. e. cummings’ poem “in Just-” with my AP English Literature students. Rather than post the cummings poem, I figured I would return
-
Sitting down to breakfast early on February 18th, God served up a fresh poem just outside my windows. Wolf Creek had leapt its bounds and was slowly creeping up the lawn as a result of the hard rains and melting snows of multiple weeks. In the midst of attending my sons’ basketball tournaments, filing taxes,
the deepening ground 