The white-haired matron in the road-side hut rattles two bags, “You pickin’? Bushel’r peck?” Noa turns away, clings. I try: I love YOU, a
The morning snow was all wrong, the way it spun—gray, almost dry, rattled against the eaves, old wraith fingers rapping, tapping to wake
My father often said in his 70s and 80s that he wanted to go in water—floating out beyond the sightlines of our family
Did God withdraw to make room for the universe or merely carve out an open space in His Infinite light? asked the Chassidic