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 MoreWatermelon rind is an earned privilege. It means you are with - in community, at a potluck, part of a familial unit. At the store, I buy for one. I purchase precut, ruby cubes enclosed in clear plastic.
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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