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 MoreThe dogwood, with it’s blush-dipped cream blossoms that once guarded the very center of the front yard, has been gone for twenty years now. Why shouldn’t I, with all of my goodness, also be uprooted and asked to leave?
Read MoreToday I went to the shoe store looking for a pair of neutral flats and walked out with pink high heels.
Read MoreI look at things. I guess most people do, but I wonder what everyone else sees when they’re looking. I suppose that’s what conversations are for. Conversations make me tired. I guess that’s why I’m a writer.
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