R.S. Dietrich

From Georgia, through South Carolina, North Carolina, around Greenville and Charlotte, across the Tugaloo River, and the Broad, the Catawba, the Yadkin and the New, through two storms, one thick yet brittle, the other soft, collecting on the windshield like tears, over one night, here I am, flowers . . . . Continue Reading »

God is not an interference, some extra object clotting with dark among the branches of maples. Or kicked up with the dust, mote in an attic beam of spring-cleaning sun, or conjured up in the gray of a man's head. But in the red of a woman's womb, God becomes blood and muscle and mortar of bone, the . . . . Continue Reading »