The bones of a poem lie beneath your skin, anchoring each muscular stanza, shaping the rhymes of left and right, dancing with the complicated riff of the brain punch-drunk on electrical impulses, stamping jubilant feet to the pulsing rhythms of the fluid-bearing vessels and their drum-beat heart.
March lies covered under thick snow. Brown leaves have clung all winter to the stunted oak, rustling loudly as bitter wind drives across the tundra of the yard. They will fall in spring. Any day now, by the calendar. The hare's prints trace her hunt for any not-yet-gnawed shoots above the waist-deep drifts. We all … Continue reading Common magic
I have finished striding through the day and yearn now for small comforts a familiar chair a soft lamp a half-read book an old cat Let go of the adventures and the glad-handing let the workers return to their families let me find my way to tomorrow's courage as night folds down