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 MoreToday I went to the shoe store looking for a pair of neutral flats and walked out with pink high heels.
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.
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