RHYTHM IS THE INSTRUMENT

Last leaf on the maple,  I’d almost forgotten after last season's lightness, but I know how you feel: both bright gold and crippled— doo...

By November, when its colder and sound travels  farther, I can hear  the swift but distant tolling of church bells—right on the tick of the ...

Post-harvest orchards—what pure formalism! Gorgeous  works of art that no longer  serve a purpose.

The trick is  to run and jump off the cliff— not at the end of careful deliberation— but to start with. It’s cold air’s bracing lack of any ...

Don't ponder. Often, there is one way to get through a thing. Even the electrons—ficklest  changelings in creation, born of (and ever si...

     —after W.S. Merwin On the last day of the world, I would not want to know it. Because maybe not realizing how lucky you've been is ...

Ridiculous how practical a surfeit  of color is— how fall’s glamour  will strategically go tripping on its own largess— how a blanket of gol...