it was always said that of all the people on the Island I loved life the best I who had the least but I had all I needed
surf and turf of St. Andrews olde salts and bullshit under one blue tarp gossip thick as molasses sparks quick as match-lit gas
The taste of winter ice Dug in August from the sawdust Of Conley’s ice house The slap of the screen door On Grammy’s porch
Tide tickling sun’s wake Under a thin skin of ice Beach disappearing
Seagulls hovering Uneven hills encircle Tide pool reflection
the sum of the estate: pictures newspaper clippings poems the memories
she watches him as if the fault were in her eyes poor shorn Sampson withered hands grip the canes that barely hold the frail reflect…
Many times, my father, drunk upon… “Spare the rod and spoil the child… Swung his belt and lay the stripes… To cleanse my soul. And I, drunk upon memory and whis…
last night the winter world transformed to summer’s sphere fireflies in the night their aimless paths alight
sunlight through the clouds in a ring of bright water loons fish two by two
a cold moon filters down through the purple asters no explorers have returned with caterpillar robes and dandelion gold
which of our ancestors did it - traded wings for thumbs burdened us with possessions fed us to the uncompromising earth…
death is absence of thought - zen how can we be afraid of something we cannot live to experience? it’s life that is frightening
little lies, seeds of thyme shallow-rooted, often sewn cover the largest stone yet a tree springs from a single seed
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