This world is a garden fearfully madean unruly orchard once well formedthough now decayed I am a gardenerwho mourns well-meaning overwhelmed misguided having let children

The soul of my cat is in the riseand fall of her breathing,undulations like wind overa prairie, softest plumes tremblingon the spine of a knife.

A friend loves at all times … a sibling is born for adversity — Proverbs 17:17 friendship is a reciprocal relationshipcharacterized by intimacymade faithful because

This place is flushed with a friendly lighton Sunday evenings when the days grow short,but not on this Lord’s Day morning. On thisday of the

I said I wouldn’t do it,so how does it happenon a Sunday we tookcommunion that I findmyself staring at aglowing, naked image?And I do not

(after Scott Erickson’s With Us – Face to Face) Did it feel different, I wonder,to hold the child? Could she hearthe hum of creation vibrating

St. Patrick stands at the shore:slithered impressions in the sea,smile smeared on his lips,staff slurred into a half circle. Angels soaring in the Irish skylisten

I. Late August humdrum heat hanging from brittle bushes by the nearly dried-up crick We smell them first — floral warmth and woody delicacy– astonished

for Wiebe Boer In green spaces, the young run drills—call their Cruyff turnsSwange; say the footballs they orbit are honeycomb worlds. The earth is sweeter,