Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to…Read More
“To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted.” – Bill Bryson 1999: We’re on the brink of a new decade, a new…Read More
It’s 5:43 p.m. central standard time on New Year’s Eve as I begin typing this. How was your year?Read More
the sun beats harshly on crenulated battlements
as a string of horsemen and camels approaches the gate.
the stony hills are shrouded in darkness, the shapes of shrub
and sheep and shepherd almost indistinguishable in the gloom.
a scrubby hillside, a tiny house, and a weary traveler
picking her way up the dusty path to the threshhold.
i won’t let go till you give me this poem!
but why am i writing it?
the beam of light illumines a face shrouded in shadow
it is a young face — oh, such a young face!
It’s hard sometimes, isn’t it, when all we can see are the shadows of things.Read More
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples