It’s August. The land thirsts. Leaves of the willow, yellowing. No air moving. But at five in the evening the wind marches our way. Not like a thin wind, more like a predator. What’s going on? We check and learn thunderstorms are bearing down on us. Suddenly, leaves flurry and dance like chicken feathers in a hen house. Wind and rain. We quickly leave our neighbor’s and hurry home. Chimes are clanging with madness on the back porch. Tired from an afternoon headache (caused by

I love the mysterious, little stones that strangers and children leave on benches, mailboxes, porches. Words like Love, Believe, Courage, Hope are written on them. Just reminders, I suppose, in case we lose our way. Much is wrong with the world we live in. A blind person can probably see that. My grandchildren are growing up in a culture that has little or no respect for people, animals, or environment. Sad. I guess I could fill my own thoughts with chaos that would keep my m

I’ve waited a long time, longer than most authors, searching for options on what to do with a book that’s sold-out, the publisher unresponsive to any inquiries. I can’t tell you how many times I’d pushed the book aside, like a woman not knowing how to comfort herself about the loss of her wedding ring. The original chapbook (short collection of poetry) was never put on Amazon because the publisher wanted the book sold via the author and/or company. I sold out of the book, but

I sense that something big is going on, but my husband only says, “I want to let Alex and Zach do some driving today.” (They obtained their permits recently.) The sausage spits and sputters in the pan. I stay out of the kitchen but watch the two boy-men. One is turning sausage in a skillet; the other puts biscuits into the oven. We’ve had the grandsons and their sister this week. Their Pappaw and the boys are burning things in the fire pit, cutting and firing off stumps, busy