Blog
Zero at the Bone
| January 31, 2022 Emily Dickinson knew something about—holding space—the power—dashes have— The white spaces hold so much—the ghost of her white dress—posing in the corner. They may be silent—but are not empty.
Flower Salute
| January 24, 2022 The flowers bob on the brown swirls of the river bloated with spring rain. As they float downstream, I serenade them with poetry - “the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief“ - words from a Wendell Berry poem, that you, a poet, once told me “was damn-near perfect.”
Reenactor
| January 17, 2022 My father was orphaned at eighteen, and though he'd made his own family, we weren't enough to satisfy his craving for deep roots. For that, he had his sixth great-grandfather and the American Revolution.
Hard Frost
| January 10, 2022 On the morning of the day the jury would return, snow swirled with fallen white blossoms in the gutters of the streets. April can be cruel like that. The next day, as I drove, all over town I saw plants that had been protected from the hard frost with sheeting and tarps, and the covered shapes seemed to shift before my eyes...
Attention Maximally Paid
| January 7, 2022 The author chooses one very specific day in her recent past—November 19, 2019—to write a “memoir” about. The day “sticks in my head,” Huber writes, “because of the chemistry of adrenaline, downtime, and notes made in a journal.”
Keywords: book review
Amelioration
| January 3, 2022 I want waking up to feel like shuffling a new deck of cards: smooth and full of intention. The citrus sun rises early now. I remember that my body is also a tender peach, wrinkling as I stretch to the horizon line.
