The Quiet Work of Rain
This morning arrives on the soft feet of rain. Not a storm, not a proclamation—just a steady, unhurried falling that smooths the edges of June. The light has quieted itself, as though the day has drawn a thin linen curtain, inviting us to step back from the bright insistence of early summer. The gardens, only…
Ancient Things in New Soil
By late morning, I was on my hands and knees in the garden, peeling back the winter‑tangled overgrowth to ready the soil for the perennials that will spill color into the coming weeks. There is something humbling about beginning a season this way—palms pressed into cool earth, knees damp, breath fogging slightly as the day…
When the Morning Has No Map
This morning arrives without a map. Over the Finger Lakes, the sky holds itself in that silver-blue hesitation that cannot decide what it wants to be. Half-gray, half-promise. It hovers, and I hover with it. The air is too cold for late May, forty-eight degrees slipping beneath my jacket and settling along the skin like…
In My Words 