The Preciousness of Every Little Thing, Every Little Memory

My mom looked off for just a moment, as if some story had always been near to her and seemingly always there after all these years.  As she recalled the events, the colors of the room went dull and her words became crisp and vivid. “There was that one time.” She started, as if every…

Indecision

To at times be indecisive, is it not as natural as the shifts in weather? Somehow, this world has managed to live, resilient and unending—

That Place of Solitude

To be alone and not feel that loneliness, this takes many years. To discover, when in search of those places that offer solace in solitude, certainly, this takes many years.

The Language of Trees

    That time before noon, as we put our tools up, as our thoughts taper off, is a time susceptible to musing the stillness of things:  the orchard, its naked green and gray concrete bodies that never seem to shiver and never seem to consider themselves concerned of the cold; and the sun, in…

The Loving Honesty of Heartbreak (in 5 poems)

I won’t act like I know what love is or write so certainly of it.  I know I have, and do often think of it, but so far every grand epiphany reminds me how vast of a concept love is.  I can speak of heartbreak and the beautiful breaking down the parts of ourselves to…

Gratitude, from the Deep Well of Sorrow

It isn’t Syriac, not even Arabic; both of which I love to hear being sung at the Maronite church in Buffalo, New York—with the incense filling the worship hall in thick haze, the parishioners dressed in  black, the back of their hair illuminated by the narrow and tall stained glass, and that sense of high…

The Sound of a Door Closing (Pt. I)

  Just yesterday, though it wasn’t the first time, a parent stopped me on my way out of the school to ask how I was doing.  Had it been the first time, I may have stopped and stayed there to give her a more sincere answer.  I probably wouldn’t have replied with only a curt…

enough

  Right now, there is that compelling drive to make those twenty-something hours to Tennessee, to run along the low-hum of dreary mountains into New England and on over to New York, To take my time coming back, through the quiet rocky forests To all those pieces of my heart I left behind in each…

Winnowing

The celebration of winnowing the sunflowers is much like a quiet and content act of smashing the previous year into bits and saving the precious pieces of text that made it through last year’s hell.  The obvious metaphor of seed saving for next few seasons is a cliché, but that was not what I was…