after Lawrence Raab are not like the wee hours,where anything might happen or already has— or the blousy hours of early morning,the sheets taut under

The parlor lies beneath its settled dust.The grand oak table in the dining room,Long stripped of plate, cuillere, and candelabra, Reflects the twilight like a

The sky’s so thick with graynot even the faintest shape of cloud shows through.Somewhere behind, the planes drag their wings alonga current of air. The

In the northwoods, the serene pulse of the lake greetsbuds and pollen falling under pines while bees hum  praise from sunrise until dusk in this

I halfway thought the wind would still be in them,but the little coppery chimes were full insteadof spider sacs and dauber mud, gray-redfrom the airs

She was right about this place, the unforgiving winter months sullen, sunless, bitter, but then spring a dream God has and lets us slumber in

Thistles mock all, growing . . .in a heap of broken glass with last year’s soot.—Genevieve Taggard, “American Farm, 1934” In the moments after she

No one to place the potted liliesin a semicircle, fragranttrumpets raisedaround the pulpit. The piano’s teeth delicatelystill; guitars lean their long necksinto resting stands.

“Here’s a truth, friends,”He said before leaving:“Anyone with faithwill do greater thingsthan these when I goto the Father.” Hyperbole. It had to be.Greater things thanwater