Does anyone still paint by numbers? I once made a fine pair of canvases––birch trees on a stream rippled by dabs of white. I
Today, the sunflower echoes the aging banana on our counter, each one speckling into death. I think of death differently every day. My father’s
The roads are furrows in the green, troughs carved through to Florence from the beach. The heat grows as we go along. Soon the
Let’s sit on the porch in the late afternoon sun— that untarnishable golden glow—and spit sunflower hulls into an old flower pot. The