Eric Trethewey

Tugged out of bed by a dream,he enters the world, confrontscats stalking the hallway,aghast at this early walker.The moon, almost full, glowson the crust of old snow. Back in the bedroom, his wifedreams in a world that is histo return to. Perhaps.But for now he’s hereby the window, . . . . Continue Reading »

This morning, early, I wakened to a knocking at the pane—an apple bough, fruit-laden, stirred by wind—and rose to the morning’s clear gift. Outdoors in sunlight, bending to the kind of labor that gives back more than it costs, I mowed the grass and planted . . . . Continue Reading »