Who planted the seed that made me want to build a house: a home, a shelter from which to window a life— And who taught me to want the little graces that come like light through the blinds; that stack on shelves, that hold the simple bread of mornings and the broth of night after deepening night? Whoever it was, or whether circumstance merely sharpened this blade I arrived in the world with, I was ripe with longing before I was even aware— its varying tastes fill my mouth: its vintage, rounded or roughed with the years.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.