2013-06-17T05:07:53+00:00 via web To: PublicLight from the setting sun glistens on rain-wet leaves. I reach for a jacket. Four days till the calendar calls it summer..
2013-06-14T20:18:56+00:00 via web To: PublicThe wren doesn't care if I whittle my life away with twittering, only that I turn a blind eye to her nest in a dented tea tin in the shop
2013-06-14T04:02:12+00:00 via web To: PublicWe have not solved our enigma by evolving , escaped our grass roots. We cannot get above our raisings.
2013-06-12T12:24:02+00:00 via web To: PublicI've spewed my keyboard sticky eating oranges at my desk; Isqueezed for juice, grated for zest. This one crackles, fills my mouth with juice
2013-06-11T12:38:55+00:00 via web To: PublicAs sure as rain makes mud, children will splash in puddles, seduced by the splat and the suck of the muck, heedless of their Sunday shoes.
2013-05-02T11:58:15+00:00 via web To: PublicI remember Uncle's beehives, white boxes placed here & there, alien as Stevens' jar, on farmland I was free to roam, always gently buzzing
2013-05-01T11:17:33+00:00 via web To: PublicThe W. kids, who lived in my uncle's tenant house, walked the lane. They'd run ahead, throw rocks at the bee tree. I was not afraid of bees.
2013-04-30T12:07:42+00:00 via web To: PublicSometimes there were other children but mostly I walked the lane alone from bus to house, ears alert for the monster sneaking up behind me.
2013-04-29T13:06:37+00:00 via web To: PublicI remember the gravel lane, the first long sloping hill and where it leveled out, a hollow tree in the fence row buzzing with honeybees.
2013-04-28T11:35:48+00:00 via web To: PublicI remember the gravel lane from school bus to our house sloped down toward the creek; a narrow lane closely lined with trees.
2013-04-26T11:14:26+00:00 via web To: PublicI remember walking the half mile of gravel road from the school bus stop, the buck bushes that grew on the bank beside Papaw's barn.
2013-04-20T10:03:52+00:00 via web To: PublicI remember wading the ankle-deep branch, rocks would tip under my feet and crawdaddies would backpedal, leaving a murky trail of silt.
2013-04-04T01:02:21+00:00 via web To: PublicThe resident raccoon licks at the ice in a water bowl,the forsythia is a stand of gray sticks, winter will not give way to spring.
2013-04-02T01:30:47+00:00 via web To: PublicA cold gray April 1, daffodils thrust up spears but show no bloom. In an ash by the road, a buzzard perches, watching.
2013-03-30T13:55:57+00:00 via web To: PublicBlack coffee in a white porcelain cup, red coils of the space heater reflected in the white, outside late March snow.