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

A sudden itch for woodcraft, Ihead for the garage, take twobead-board doors from a dustystack of kitchen-cupboard pieces rescued from a garage sale,the old spruce

I drive into the plains when the moon is full. I find a dirt road.There is a pasture gate with a turn-off where I stop.

And he took the fire in his hands and the knife–Genesis 22:6 The beasts walk single file, saying hallelujah, eating bones. The woodsmen with their