On Sundays, my father used to disappear for a while and come back with blueberry muffins. I don’t remember when it started. It wasn’t tied to a holiday or a reward or any particular reasoning. It was simply one of those thoughtful gestures my parents made because they cared. My sister and I were in high school, which meant we were chronically tired, yet somehow I always managed to surface on Sunday mornings right around the time he returned from the country market. The bag wo

A toad sits beside the garden wall, while crickets sing among the grass. Fireflies rise as dusk begins to fall, shooting stars that come and pass. He does not stir to follow their light, nor chase where any wild thing goes. He settles deep into the night, still as the earth from which he rose.

I write and draw, though I rarely think of them as separate endeavors. Sometimes an idea arrives as an image, sometimes it arrives as a piece of writing. A poem becomes a drawing. A drawing becomes a poem. Most of the time, I'm following the same thread from one form into another. I usually have several projects going at once. Some eventually find their place in a larger collection. Others stay as fragments. Most spend a long time becoming whatever they're meant to be. Margin