A Daffodil Winter

Cracks are forming in the course mulch where sprigs of something are trying desperately to come up. The bulbs of spring are curious or maybe too eager to resist. It is a warm winter, after all. And the amount of rain is comparable to what used to be April’s responsibility—now May.  The now wet and…

September for the Sycamores

    This morning the sycamores are peeling back their bark and revealing a dull white skin.  Above, their iron arms are stretched out with thousands of pallid green and scorched-tip leaves holding on. The foliage is still thick, and I can only see glimpses of the sun from the ground. Little by little, however,…

The Work of a Rose

      The work seems invisible now. But just yesterday, Mom called me on the phone.  The news was bad: grandpa was in the hospital again.  He’s strong, but it’s unlikely this time.  For a year I watched over my grandpa’s farm. But Mom’s been showing up this whole time as one of the…