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I’ll hobble into the foothills to stand half-blind in the lilted dark above the draw, looking out over the valley...

My mother grows delphinium, foxglove, zinnia, plucks the dew laden morning. With a storm of petals, she anoints my waking...

Nothing stays at rest molecules of a crystal—table salt snowflakes, diamonds, quartz—repeat their patterns in tight formation like a platoon...

On the weekends the boys would take their bikes into the desert carrying wicker baskets and sharpened sticks in search...

The obituary talks of his smile. I imagine it breaking through his face like a thunderhead, frantic like a hunted...

Fire blight has touched the pear, and the bright leaves And rounding fruit crumble to ashes despite the sun, The...

put on Atom Heart Mother and guide him to sit on the edge of the bed with lit candles on...