Poetry

Ice crusted sheets over November puddles bespeak more of the future than this cold day ...

Among the earliest of sins ...

Half-court. Dad said our perch from steep bleachers allowed us a good view of the players.

It's not always easy to carry good wishes and admiration in a see-through bag ...

I asked for two fried egg sandwiches and a blueberry milkshake. I got soup.

Along our route to the sea laps low ...

First I place them in a line atop a narrow path along the side of the house ...

So much depends upon a baby ...

The marketplace vendors admit they can't explain God. They shrug and pocket pomegranates ...