Most moments, we miss. We just lose. We don’t know to make them special. Don’t know that they’re an only or a last. But, every now and then, we get it right. And we stay stuck right down inside them, those moments. Right where we’re supposed to be. Until they’re over. Because we know. I

the valley of the heart

It’s empty in the valley of your heart The sun, it rises slowly as you walk Away from all the fears And all the faults you’ve left behind The harvest left no food for you to eat You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see But I have seen the same I know the shame in your

as tender as he always was

And yet, as always, the springtime sun brings forth new life, and we may rejoice because of this new life and contribute to its unfolding; and Mozart remains as beautiful and tender as he always was and always will be. There is, after all, something eternal that lies beyond reach of the hand of fate

we sit in silence

And just like that, everything changes. In a moment. In a word. You see the things that matter, the things that don’t. And you wonder how you ever mistook one for the other. Life’s like that sometimes. It gets us in our secret place. Where we go to hide from the world – and from

i’m not as good as i once was

I never just breathe. I spend most of my time doing the opposite – holding my breath until it comes out so fast and furious it makes me dizzy. But today, outside the airport, I took a moment to do it…to just breathe. I didn’t worry about the sun on my face or the time

the naked woman

We tell ourselves stories in order to live. The naked woman on the ledge outside the window is a victim of accidie, or maybe an exhibitionist, and it would be ‘interesting’ to know which. We tell ourselves that it makes a difference whether the naked woman is about to commit a mortal sin or is

crabtree watching the transit of Venus A.D. 1639

I used to spend my lunch hour in Manchester’s town hall. I’d stand in front of a mural by Ford Madox Brown, eat potato chips, and wonder about the time and people who had passed by the painting since it first found its home upon the wall. Art and architecture and celestial mechanics always make

the tree

Last night I had a dream about a man. He told me about his life. How he was born in his momma’s bed, and raised in the cornfields. His daddy was a farmer. From way back. “One day daddy’s gonna die in that corn.” He looked at me and winked. “But not until I die

big celie

Celie lived with her six children in a tumbled down company house beside the railroad. Coal dust covered everything within a mile of the track but no dust ever covered Celie. She dressed her family like she dressed herself – in white – and was known for starching and ironing every piece of linen she