Live Oak After seven years of walking this road, I’ve picked my tree. I hug it daily, stretch my arms...
All Flesh Is Grass The days passed quickly, back then, though some hours lingered in that hot hospital room, waiting,...
Coals The abandoned farm is a black pool aaaaaaain the memory of the forest beyond. The road goes by never...
Circa 1900 Waldo sharpened the blades of his turn-of-the-last-century sled and slid Downhill at age eighty-four. His wife chided him,...
Him and the Dog She stands birching Towards river Black metal liquid Sweating paper Southeast Her pepper white skin flapping...
Controversy Not looking for Controversy, I found it four miles from where I grew up, as the crow flies. Controversy...
Moving On, Not Moving On I think I knew our new home was two states west of home. But what...
Hindsight isn’t up close as a rearview mirror. It’s unearthed, like the little blue boot turned up by the tractor...
Jeremy Haworth is an Irish poet and writer. In 2019, he started Charis Garden, renovating a tumbledown farmstead and walled...
My Uncle’s Farm I recollect particulars by the dozen, But late in life I yearn to shift the sensory into...
Daughter of the Deep Places A hardwood doesn’t settle in its spot Out of any preference for that spot. She...
Passing Through Uncertain if it was my home, the shifting lens of time bears down on the house – nearer...