Those who have known me very well or very long understand that it’s not unusual for me to disappear. I don’t literally vanish, of course,...

My mother died at fifty-nine — altogether too young for a woman of such talent, beauty, and generosity. Unofficial cause of death: Fatal...

Mother! Hear me! My heart is heavy with sorrow I confess I find small hope in tomorrow For the sons of man wield a heavy hand Leaving...

I was born a bard. Long before I could read or write I held court beneath the willow tree and amused the neighbor kids with tales of...

I miss my woods... Today, I made it to the lip of the valley and back, only once setting foot in snow. The way was soft with promise and...

I’ve never told anyone before, so I suppose it only makes sense that I should tell the whole world in one fell swoop. I’m not ashamed of...

“We’ll need writers who can remember freedom – poets, visionaries – realists of a larger reality.” ~ Ursula K Le Guin Stories shape our...

for now... fallow spent silent germinating

Like so many other things, the theory sounds better than the actual experience attests — being able to know whether someone is lying,...

We're older than rocks. And we have little choice as to our purpose in the world. Whether blogging or spinning tales through ancient peat...