July 9, 2012 / Creative Writing
When violence strikes a church on a Sunday morning, it challenges us to question the meaning of hell and the power of love.
January 12, 2004
In the early evening of cool Autumn,
When the time for thinking and talking is just right.
You can hear the moon whisper back
the words of forgotten conversations.
Sped upward by the crisp, light air,
They are left undone
and rain quietly back to the upturned arms
of Maple, Elm and Beech.
As one of those forgotten ones
I come back to ask her
Whether life turned out the way she’d expected
The way she knew it to be in deep sleep.
Lost for a time in searching thought,
Just waiting for the smoke and the leaves to clear,
My whisper would die even as the new moon rises
and for a time she also could forget.