Blog
Our Secret (A Poem)
It is in rest
That I feel it most.
What can I call the sensation?
An internal pulse. A churning. A surge.
A knock on the door of my rib cage.
I witness the rise and fall of my flesh
Stretched thin across my belly
And smile.
You’re awake.
Another Christmas at Sawyer’s Peak
I wake to soft streams of light pouring through the window of my childhood bedroom, and the warmth of a small curled body that has taken liberty to climb under my covers while I slept. Feigning slumber, I peek one eye open to look out the slats of my window blinds, and glimpse a flurry of white fairies littering the crisp winter air. They settle on the lawn and patio like a coating of powdered sugar. I inhale with deep satisfaction. It’s Christmas morning.
A Delicate Dance of Death: Fall in New York
I let the nutty flavor of columbian coffee with a hint of cream and sugar linger on my tongue after I sip it. The mug containing it warms my hands as I take a happy step towards the scene. Dried, curled leaves drift silently toward the ground, light as feathers, in a delicate dance of death. They are remarkably fragile underfoot, crackling as I bend and break their thin frames, like the flakes of a croissant.
Another Summer at Lake Wallenpaupack, PA
Baby fish begin leaping to catch a net of bugs that hover just above the water’s surface, and when they fall it looks like rain. Their silver bellies catch the light in paparazzi flashes about me. They do this at the same time every year—just like the baby toads that hop across the beach, and the tiger swallowtail butterflies, punctually filling the lake bushes with their delicate yellow wings each summer.