Aunt Louise listed her garden chores on a chartin the laundry room next to the garagewhere she tended her collection of bonsai.In the careful work

The breeze is brisk like a crisp cup of water as I drink in sunlight on the Sabbath,a Latin cigar gifting its peppery smoke before

It’s surprising how a chaplain’s visitwill resemble a Shakespearean script,|artifice shaping the entire eventwhen one steps on a hospital unit. Like a thespian’s stage, this

Quite near but not quite tothe white tile balcony,at dusk there soared or flitan acrobatic troupeof house bats out for joyof moths and flies and

Got nothing much to say.The golden trumpet treesall chucked their blooms today.The streets were bright with strands. A corgi on a lineignored his owner’s will,tugged

What if the Spirit of God just appeared to meright now, and it was in a flock of wild turkeys?I awoke and, lying in my

How sad the moon must becenturies of poets explainto hang so dimly in the skyvague beacon in the raincircle behind passing cloudsgazing down from her

Eucalyptus bendingsouthward, angledby sundowner winds, you pointover the top of lastDecember’s spot fire, saying,I just knewthis would happen. Photo by Ghiffari Haris on Unsplash

Ah, la lune est brisée, said the childto the half moon. She stared, pointing her fingerat the night sky. Her sudden true and wildthought broke