O Thou, God, Maker of Heaven and Earth Who was before Earth, or Heaven, or Time began, Who knows the beginning and the end of lightning and the way of the thunder’s rumble — Who splashes in the depths of the sea as if in a puddle — Who sees the substance of the invisible…Read More
i am arguing with myself the worth of my writing. one part of me says yes! this poem is good and true and genuine and beautiful. it is heartfelt, artful, artless. the other is not so sympathetic but feels more honest. this poem is not bad, but it is about you. where is the eternal,…Read More
unless a seed will fall to the ground and die no tomb can be a wombRead More
I love spring anywhere, but if I could choose I would always greet it in a garden. — Ruth Stout It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. — Charles Dickens In the…Read More
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.