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get the words out.
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The smallest things are graces. The cup of tea just released from my hand. The candle I just lit. The poems I am editing for my first chapbook. My housemates have gone to bed as is their habit and I am staying up as is mine. The house is(more)
My grandmother was named Grace.  But we all knew her as Mum Mum.  It never occured to me that she was my grandma, I had (and still do have) one of those too.  Something about the sagging cheeks, the paper skin, the ponderous humming, the way she governed our family with benevolence(more)
Is to grow old with grace having that Good Job, the one with the pension & the health insurance & paid vacation? A responsible, accomplished life? Or is to grow old with grace not growing old, still choosing whimsy, still chasing winding roads until your hair grows gray? Does(more)