My life is writing itself as a hymn. The melody keeps rounding, over and over, each verse stacked atop the other — four, five, six tall — the words glittering in the rhythm like fool’s gold lining a creek bed.
Read MoreWhen I was twenty-four, I fell in love with mailboxes.
Read MoreWhen I was a child on the shoreline, my sister and I would build sand castles when the tide was low.
Read MoreOn Sunday I watch the sun set. From my little balcony, I sit on the deck floor, chairs still folded behind me from a storm last week. They are slim and still and patient, like butterflies with damp wings.
Read MoreSummer’s trying, and honestly that’s all I need. Just one small indication that the planet is not against me, that nature is moving forward, that a grass smell-filled, warm and swooshy breeze will still ripple through the green leaf streamers and rustle that organic rhythm.
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