Reflection after writing a book
“The Lord thy God is mighty… He will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.”
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poetry
Just one more
“Here is a beautiful pinecone, even though it’s a little squished, and that big big dandelion wants to come home with me…”
Alphabet prayers
I’ve been reading the book of Lamentations. It’s so beautiful that I tried writing an English prayer in the same structure, just for fun.
Pumpkin Pity Party Pie
Prepared with love for him at dinner’s end, an unannounced surprise made carefully into a luscious circle of fresh crimped crust…
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The corn people
Held in warmth and darkness, the embryos await the light
Grow whole and plump out of the broken
Push their rumpled heads out of the night
Summer
Watermelon, fireworks, new barbecue sauce, a child’s wagon, homegrown tomatoes, rose petals Day lilies, cantaloupe, orange dream on a stick, campfire coals, a shocking sunset, ripe peaches Sunlight on my skin, black-eyed susan, sea shells, the heart of a daisy, full moon, buttered cobs of corn Fresh mown lawn, leaves making merry, mossy rocks by
On a modern day dilemma
It is impossible not to finish something If you keep plugging away at it. This is what I tell myself When my projects look overwhelming. On the other hand, I suppose it is impossible To finish something If you keep plugging away at it. So it would appear That the better part of
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In sickness and in health: a short opinion on life in the former
There are human experiences that find relief only in the writing of extremely tacky poetry – the kind that Uncle Joe would read aloud at his great-niece’s wedding, laboring under the impression that he has produced something clever while everyone else ate cake. (“Her mother and father did her adore, Little knowing what lay in
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Dawning of the age
Early in the morning Afraid of what they’d find, a Sisterhood of grief and trepidation Turned the final corner of the age to find an Empty bed, drooping linens, risen Lord on Resurrection morning. Eagerly we work and wait the advent As His kingdom comes, His will is done, we Scan the earth and
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The house of tomorrow
I always say that Ryan is the one who had fostering in his blood, not me. But tonight I remembered a poem I loved before I was married. I used to sing it to myself, because it got inside my heart and tugged. Maybe it was a premonition. I never thought so then. Foster Baby
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