What We Know

My dad’s flannel shirt hangs in the shedthese ten years later. A musty smellof turpentine and wood oilhas settled in the work space. Mom’s handwritten cookbooks clutter the cabinet, stickywith her fingerprints, flour still seepingfrom the pages years after her death. Yet, here in this house, it’s the unfinished, unsaid words I yearn for in…

Synchronicity

I’ve been playing around with poetry again. Now that I have given my press and type away, I feel the call to be creative in other ways. For years I participated in a writing group, which was, in my mind, a group that focused on “writing to heal.” That’s probably because I had lots of…