Her Hardest Hue to Hold

We decided it was the best place to study flamingos, but camping was Samson’s idea. He inherited a wrangler jeep from some sort of uncle up north. I was at the lake lodge where we did most of our research when he dreamt up the idea. Sitting on the lawn by the lake, everyone heard

Why Did You Twist Me Up?

Was the Moon A witness Or an accomplice?  I can’t tell But, Both times It was there Sleepless Swollen eye An overripe orange That I mistook  For the sun Why did you twist me up? I ask the staring eye                                                  Who, Clutching every reply Doubts to confide Even a hiccup                                           Hollow Pulp-less fruit With

Metal Birds

Far behind the house’s rear, among moss and dead leaves was a spring. Connected to the spring by a small staircase of large rocks lie a stream that flowed as a river when it rained and ran dry through summer and winter. Insects–gnats, mosquitos, flies–danced above puddled water in the day, the light giving shape

Monet’s Summer

I stand before a summer day. Softer, warmer, brighter than the day I’m in. Monet’s vertical canvas, the object of my looking, dissolves, and I am left in space itself. Nature can be this for the mind, a tabula rasa. Hm… I’m not frightened by the vastness, the entrance is not a jolt or a