Grief
She lands with the others, but now has turned away without ruffling this pond. Each feather carries its own […]
She lands with the others, but now has turned away without ruffling this pond. Each feather carries its own […]
There you are. Were you lost In the blue reaches of what could be? It is no small thing to
When she left she was already shadow, the jet black smudge of history blurred by the cataracts of 93 years
She opens her grief as one guts a fish, nimble and clean, a blade sheened in red. Don’t let the
“We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep.”―William James We are out
On the narrow edge of canvas an artist leaves unintended fingerprints, the drifting tail of an incomplete line, a smudge.