Rob Griffith

Alive in the long, deep room of the soul, I feel, at 41, absurdly old, a burnt-out heap of blackened greenwood on the grate. And this despite the steady light that fills this place and warms the burnished floors, the leather chairs, the paintings framed in gilt. This despite the crystal sparking on . . . . Continue Reading »

Even before we passed the bears (who sat Like mourners in a church, their great brown paws Still and flat across their knees), we heard her sing, A high, sweet echo of cathedral song. And when we turned the corner, there she was, A slender woman sheathed in red who leaned Against the pool and sang . . . . Continue Reading »