This morning, my son
has a conversation
with the sun.
He - a round baby human
behind cloth and cold window.
She - a golden flame
behind blue earth and snow.
He sings and coos,
while she in her brilliance,
peek-a boos.
Note
I am a note. You are a note. Every moment is a chord, or a jangled collection of notes. Prime moments are harmonious, while disconnected mom...
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The word loses its meaning once repeated across this page a s every job I have ever had has lost its meaning once repea... -
In my denim skirt, floral blouse and old olive-green flats, I sit beside Scott in a small glass bank office. We are applying for our first... -
One weekend every year, The Mini-Unit travels somewhere together and this February, we bused from Boston to New York City. The Mini-Unit ...
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