Gift of a Sparrow’s Nest

Like a present found under the tree when everyone's sound asleep on Christmas Eve, and the feeling of trespassing.   The rustic wrapping full of hope, a family’s intimate history in twisted straw and cursive grass and sometimes fine sepia print.   The urgency of architecture: this twig here, then this one crossed with that… Continue reading Gift of a Sparrow’s Nest

Pandemic V: Once an Empire

Once we made gold that sweetened the drink of Egyptian kings, elixir of gods. Once our god was an ebony gold that drove our machines and drove countries to war. Once we beat our wings at the sun, our castle a colossus that hummed. Once we made wings and flew past the sky to a… Continue reading Pandemic V: Once an Empire

Certain Houses Get Along Without Us

I saw the gracious windows of our house like two eyes that manifest its soul, the sycamores we planted are godparents, the homestead looking happy on the whole.   Certain houses get along without us when others adopt them for their home. The sound of children’s slippers in the hallway— shouldn’t that be our memory… Continue reading Certain Houses Get Along Without Us

Pandemic IV: Elegy for the High Five

Spring, 2020 That sudden in-air collision of palms breaking the rule, Keep your hands to yourself— it felt Friday night, it felt Mardi Gras, a home run bottom of ninth opening day. Always brazen, sometimes a rebel the way it laughed with its head thrown back, a teenager with a mischievous smile. It sometimes said… Continue reading Pandemic IV: Elegy for the High Five

Pandemic III: I Dreamed the Pandemic Was Purged

when a storm surged for days off the Mexican Coast and finally breached California shores Old Testament style and flushed our streets with epic amounts of spring clean rain. In the morning epidemiologists reported the virus was last seen in filmy rivers jumping the curbs in San Diego. Oceanographers are saying this event makes history… Continue reading Pandemic III: I Dreamed the Pandemic Was Purged

Despite the Mess of Us All

Today it isn't just the fresh marsh grass that inspires me, each blade bent and turned to glass polished by a quiet rain, or the clouds that race to stay ahead of wind's invisible paintbrush, always loath to strike a pose and every day a masterpiece. It's also the sight of a nest of webs,… Continue reading Despite the Mess of Us All

Hand, or Specimen?

Grandma, I just love your veins, touching one protruding on my left hand, watching it sully from side to side. Grandma, your hands are like specimens, my own interpretation. Veins reminiscent of invertebrates in the Natural History Museum— earthworms, centipedes, those that squirm and seek shelter. If a museum object: Left hand, mature female homo sapiens, Caucasus, sepia-colored… Continue reading Hand, or Specimen?