If you could be a feather in a raven’s black wing, indistinguishable from the others, alive as wings must be as the raven caws its mind from a tree filled with Continue reading →

In the blooming period, everywhere is open. Winds make you arrive where you do not want to go. Disrupt the Sequence of the hours. Everything starts talking: bract, awn, butterfly, Godwit. Continue reading →

In the mirror this river made of you waxes a mother’s wish: I want the whole world to see what they did to my boy. In the casket, you whistle, stuttering. Continue reading →

Out among the wet grasses and wild barley-covered Meadows, backside, frontside, through the white clover And feather peabush, over spongy tussocks And shaggy-mane mushrooms, the abandoned nests Of larks and bobolinks, Continue reading →

On April 4, moving the pea fence to another row we unearth forty perfect parsnips that had spent the coldest winter since the seventies condemned like leeches, Aristotle says, to suck Continue reading →