Tuesday, November 30, 2021
A Child Between Winter Stars
Monday, November 29, 2021
Travelers Parted By a River
Sunday, November 28, 2021
In Terms of Fairy Tales
Saturday, November 27, 2021
Fire Rather than Smoke
Friday, November 26, 2021
Closer to Murder than Not
Thursday, November 25, 2021
Threading a Fine Needle
Wednesday, November 24, 2021
The Beautiful Loneliness of Burlington, Vermont
Tuesday, November 23, 2021
We are Happy Lingering
Monday, November 22, 2021
Women Who Tell Stories
Sunday, November 21, 2021
Once Upon a Time You Wondered
Saturday, November 20, 2021
To Be Overlooked
Friday, November 19, 2021
Into a Soft Torus
Thursday, November 18, 2021
In Love or into Error
Wednesday, November 17, 2021
Zoos and Ice Cream
Tuesday, November 16, 2021
Even the Dove
Monday, November 15, 2021
Miracles Appear as an Interim
Sunday, November 14, 2021
Full of What Must Die
Saturday, November 13, 2021
Faint Traces of Paisley
Friday, November 12, 2021
Every Time We Reach a Door
Thursday, November 11, 2021
Hiding in Your Fear
Wednesday, November 10, 2021
Always Perfectly
Tuesday, November 9, 2021
Weeping in the Dark Hours
Monday, November 8, 2021
A Lot of What was Lost
Sunday, November 7, 2021
Some Kind of Prayer or Incantation
Saturday, November 6, 2021
Heart is the Hearth of the Body
Friday, November 5, 2021
A Song that Remains Familiar
Thursday, November 4, 2021
The Great Seam of the Lord
Wednesday, November 3, 2021
I Have Not Yet Met Christ
All night in dreams I realize that I have not yet met Christ save intellectually and psychologically and must but how. Chrisoula touches my shoulder, we argue a little, fall silent, and sleep. Slowly mountains appear, slowly the hemlocks, slowly a world of grief. The last of the garden harvest studded with dirt, geese uttering their low reminder of winter. What is left? Cats lick condensation off the bedroom window, Jeremiah mutters to himself going up the hall, and a sense one has that the real work has only just begun begins. Julie Andrews in Peter Pan, later singing Christmas Carols, much like Johnny Matthis a symbol of elegance that my mother - like her mother before her - coveted. Me too indeed. We are little cygnets in a snow storm, we are parentless and adrift. Is love for anything else? I was promised hardship, I was promised suffering and somebody somewhere delivered. Now what?