Quiet Winter Wood

Boots gather white, Padding toward the river. A fat chestnut squirrel titters, Flitting her tail on a brittle branch, Oblivious—or perhaps knowing— in some squirrely way— The stark beauty we behold— So much white with stalks of brown, The sun a lazy, shrouded gold....

There’s nothing like an old friend

How do we choose our dearest friends? In a sense, they are chosen for us— Plunked down in the same time and place as we are— And then by some inner magnetism— We are drawn toward them. By knowing them, we become, simultaneously, More like them and more like ourselves,...

The Psychologist

The psychologist’s supposed competence is proudly displayed in frames on his wall. I am on his couch, legs crossed like a good girl. He rolls his desk chair in front of me and rests his elbows on his knees, Awaiting my gaze to lift and meet his own, When I do, he...

Empathy

She can see the darkness, which seems to extend infinitely ahead and obscure all the Good on this earth, for the Good is there, just not meant for you, ever again. She can taste the seeds of Bitterness, which bloom on your tongue and prick your throat like stinging...

The Climbing Tree

Like Sylvia, I behold a tree— the gnarled branches twisting toward the sky, away from me. Clinging to the trunk of the present. From here, all the knots and leaves appear equally pleasant. But climbing one branch means forsaking the rest… Lord, how to know which...