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Wind Fury, Writing Fury

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 barometric changes), but I don’t go to bed. Instead, I watch a light show through a window. In fact, I am absorbed in it. Then it occurs to me—the wind in me blows hard sometimes, too. I’ve spent mad hours with writing

Yes, Thank You!

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 muscles taut. But that seems pointless. Instead, I opt to figure out what I can change and not change. So many rabbits I could chase here, but I won’t. I rub a red rock I find on a bench with kindness written on it. What

Second Edition

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 getting more copies seemed hopeless. What’s a poet/author to do? Me—I just kept writing. When you birth a book, you think it’s going to be there whenever you want it. A part of me kept saying to myself: Be patient, don’

Boys Becoming Men

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 with target practice and mowing. Some of it close to the house, so I become an observer. Something intentional is going on. Unspoken, but there’s a pattern. He’s showing these young men, almost 15, a gateway to manhood,

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