The Last Farm Stand She comes laden across the bay, and I am halfway down the hill to the ferry...
I Confess I’ve resorted to murder, here in my kitchen filled with basil, bee balm and thronging castes of blue-black...
Foraging Pluck purslane and plantain for salad, shred it small so it slides by skeptics, know you’re kneeling in Eden...
Picking Mushrooms With Papa In Woodinville In the moment, it was what you do. Looking back, it must’ve been strange...
A Meditation on the Land —remembering a farm foreclosure. For Darrell Ringer, 1953-93 “Thank you,” he said, while the black...
Still Falling Snow The woods are mine now and they fill up with snow more often than I’d like. The...
Darkroom The past would seem to exist beneath a red light behind a door seldom opened save to revisit photographs...
My Mother Considers Her Callows Farm From a parlour window I see sunlight creeping across the fields, and how some...
Roads That Lead Nowhere It isn’t the stillness they talk about, the way the light spills over old barns, or...
The Parable of the Sower Two trees with bad roots Planted by Lamont, dead six years now He’d have replaced...
And when this house goes down to wrack and ruin, as it must and will, not just because the brick...
Trophies aaaaAny lost citizen of the wild wandering our land didn’t live very long. Most were consumed. A few undressed...