four thirty AM three doors down a crow finds its voice Trying out a lune this week. Posted on non-fic because, well, it's true.
"In Portland," they told us when we moved here, "you don't garden. You beat things back with a stick." I have to say it's true. Year after year, we prune the lilacs. We trim the camellias, we cut back the roses. We wait, every spring, for the hyacinths to stop blooming so that we can … Continue reading May flowers
Tonight I tasted falsehoods in her kisses. I see them, now, in the fall of her hair across my pillow and the angle of her hip. My heart is an overwound spring, an unsigned contract. Sleeping, she is honest: she does not love me.
We are in transit, forever walking between courtesies, forever skirting the edges of our discomfort. You stop to take a breath, to tie your shoe. I urge you on. Look, I say. Home is over the next ridge. No, you say. Home is in our hands. This microstory borrows a line from the poem she … Continue reading Odyssey
Today I bought a book I don't plan to read. I know, all you minimalists and declutterers out there are gasping in horror, but look--I'm a Taurus. I like my stuff. Even stuff that doesn't spark joy. The book in question is Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott. I must have read it twenty times … Continue reading Stuff and Things