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Poetry

On Repairing Windchimes

I halfway thought the wind would still be in them, but the little coppery chimes were full instead of spider sacs and dauber mud, gray-red from the airs of abandoned years and hard as a gem.
August 10, 2021
Poetry

E Pluribus Unum

I measure, saw, drill, and rummage for more scrap wood, the garage air redolent with the sudden grace of Christmas tree, the gift of century-old spruce when cut.
July 20, 2021
Poetry

Sacred Incipience

Then I saw the tree—dead, fallen years before, limbs snapped raw like broken bones, its trunk a shroud-less corpse still teeming with life.
July 20, 2021