The oak leaves change from green to orange, gold and mahogany, and the pines remain evergreen. On such drives, when you allow, the sun steals you away to places where people say, "shall" and "thine" and in a glade ...
Category: Loss
A Poem: Angels Not for Our Keeping
i used to wonder why, but as the gold spreads through the leaves of the dogwood tree your father and my father and a farmer down the road rescued after the tornado, i gave up questioning why ... at least as often as I once cursed the sky for no other reason than i had… Continue reading A Poem: Angels Not for Our Keeping
My Son’s Middle School Season
Seasons are not only those times of year when red, orange, and brown colors tinge leaves on the trees, but the changes we face for which we are never prepared.
I Used to Sing, a Poem
Did you know I used to sing? Then I stopped performing. I walked away from the stage. I left behind a scholarship at a small college as if it was nothing more than a second hand bike passed down three times left out between flat tires, tall grass and the rain. Truth be told, I… Continue reading I Used to Sing, a Poem
Of Lighthouses and Mermaids, a Corrie Poem
Storms wash away paint on the lighthouse, and there's no repair.
Two Years and One Month after Corrie
But that's why there are seasons to grief, and also friends, who are patient and stay nearby, will see a different you rise from the ashes.
To my Students: It’s Not “Goodbye,” but “See You Later”
As the end of the school year arrived, I had a lot more to say than could fit into your average social media post.
Into this Good Earth, Part 2: Ways We Remember Corrie and Each Other
I knocked the soil loose. There is something I have to find, but I haven't located it, yet.
The Need for this Good Earth, Part I
Each day, I did something new. Mostly, I prepared Corrie's garden and parts of the yard for new plants where some were that had not survived the winter. I was not ready last year to fully take care of the garden, but here below the mountain, in the sway of the wind and the sunlight, I heard my daughter calling me. "Mommy, come water the garden."
Hands that Betray, Hands on my Daughter’s Grave: A Reflection
But I must, again, find my internal grit, and face the world with what has happened and what will come.
Corrie's Season 