Poetry

First, it's the backyard swing and the gentle sway and me with my sappy YA novel ...

Having never spared a though that it may hurt this much were I to strain my voice against a stricken & starless sky ...

The perilous journey of monarchs comes every four generations ...

I realized in a whisper that I was north of God by a question of leagues ...

I thought I knew something of water: its properties, the way it travels down mounatins ...

I am a little world made cunningly whose every element spirals down mirroring the world outside ...

There is a road that goes out at night into the dark inside us all.

But here I sit, half blind, life two-thirds gone, musing and sipping coffee on the deck of Latte Balcony ...

The week you died, the Russian tanks rolled into Ukraine through gauzy snow like this. Your brothers joked that Putin waited to invade till you were gone.