The flush of leaving’s what we notice most— thus, the white glint of a steeple on the ridge across the river under a sky
Can you hear that, that sing me sideways music, those harps as they seethe through strained teeth? Ask her for a symphony and she’ll
After G. E. Patterson At four, I thought myself a coward for in his eagerness to cure my fear of heights, my father insisted
The sunchokes lean and crowd in the corner of the yard, the teenage girls of my autumn garden, shy in their height and prickly