Category: Poetry

  My soul, I thought, was myself imagining myself a boy living beside a long and narrow lake, narrow enough to construct a bridge, but nothing on one side ...

  It begins with a rumble, a head- turning event.  Only in myth can a little boy swallow the sea. Mirth measured by slow inhale, the unveiling of an ocean’...

  That shower of snow in the lodgepoles is the raven moving his perch; somewhere the writer swims her laps in the pool waiting for plot to catch up to her,...

  This is the mathematics of topography: Triangulation. Altitude. Distance. Angle of declination. A map as means of survival, not a work of art. A compass ...

A dwindling band of Benedictines like disciples in The Acts travel down the road two by two to Milbank, to Nebraska, to Assumption in North Dakota. Their monast...

It will take a little courage to finish this book that I do not want to end. I ration the pages as on certain nights I ration love, but passion draws us on. Thi...

(Pinus contorta)   When a lodgepole succumbs to the snow and the wind and leans out over a lake, dipping its branch tips into the water, the trunk will los...

  I plant trees from nursery stock, Ponderosa and lodgepole Mountain ash and syringa, Some years ten, Other years a hundred. I water the new ones Using a p...

  It’s been dead for months, dry stiff pelt drum-skinned on a frame of delicate bones.  My two boys and I huddle over this scrap of squirrel, touch it. Onl...

  a fluttering or shimmering in the air as if filled with threads–bright as cornsilk in September’s late light, soft as down of milkweed–seeds ...