THIS IS NOT A POEM

All the clocks have melted. Time hangs from trees like rotting fruit. Men with apple faces float all around me, knowing neither life nor sin. I look at them and realize, these days, months, years, the joke has been on us. It was God who left the garden and said, “Come. Eat.”

HEMLOCKS AND RAIN

There was a day, so long ago. A grove of hemlocks along a Blue Ridge trail you hiked with your father, and you telling us they are good if we need shelter from the rain. It is raining tonight, and for a moment I saw you. We turned Kansas soil and planted your ashes on … More HEMLOCKS AND RAIN

ALMOST HEAVEN

Poverty settles in hardscrabble hollows, winds along twisted roads away from tourists, out of sight of those who come to revel in rural beauty and green mountains. There is no straight and narrow here. Sin shouts from mountain tops blown away for profit; from valleys filled with neglect and the slag heaps of an economy … More ALMOST HEAVEN