Red Sky at Morning…
This week, the effects of the Canadian wildfires turned the sky to marmalade. Not the playful jam on my grandmother’s Sunday toast, but a slow, uncanny glaze that softened the hills and laid the lake beneath an amber hush. Dawn and dusk took on the same saturated color—sunrise a long, dripping ember, sunset a candle…
A Waiting Room for Books
My study table has become a kind of waiting room for books. They gather there in uncertain stacks, leaning against one another across the table and spilling onto whatever other flat surfaces the house can spare. They look like people waiting for an appointment they are not sure they want to keep. Every few days,…
Notes on Becoming Free
Begin at the shoreline before language arrives—where the lake breathes in long glacial syllablesagainst the stones,and the stones remember pressure, not opinion.Go there early,before the gulls begin quarreling over the day,before the first boat cuts the water open.Stand still long enoughto hear the reeds clicking together in the shallows. Do not hurry to name what…
In My Words 