Both natural and artificial things bear a parabolic or symbolic quality to them. Autumn as a season, for example, is evocative of many things: the darkness of decay, to be sure, alongside bold beauty. Continue Reading »
The sky pools red this Hallowtide.We enter, ease into a pew,And whisper prayers for those who died,For relatives she never knew. They’re my lost souls. She wears all blackFor later when she’ll trick or treatAnd thinks of candy in her sackAs I write names across the sheet. Midway through life, . . . . Continue Reading »
If autumn is the poets’ favorite season, it is because autumn catches us in between, regretting and hoping, seeing the seed fall and imagining its growth. Continue Reading »
“What we call the beginning is often the endAnd to make an end is to make a beginning.The end is where we start from.” —T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets (“Little Gidding”) The end is where we start from. This last choreOf Autumn must be . . . . Continue Reading »
Once again, we are on the road early, driving to see our sonwrestle with cancer for gold. . . . . Continue Reading »
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