May

  The rain falls, falls. The valley is filled with mist, the ridge above my home is blanketed, the woods drip and steam. At night, I lie awake and listen to the stream, swelling past its banks at the bottom of the pasture. The river races itself, hurrying to get, well, anywhere. Fields, finally beginning…

Spring: Sugaring Season

They meet in the middle of the road–the Sugarmaker’s Son and my father. They meet in the middle of the road and stand, feet slowly sinking in the mud. I guess this is it. Yea, I guess it is. His pipeline is strung out, clotheslining the woods across the road into a thousand crooked squares, sectioned…

Year Of

2017. January: Home. Home. Home. Home. Home. Utter relief, even through the aftermath of the upheaving it took to get here. Friendship. Home. February: Dance again. Like deep, soaking rain after months of drought. Snow like I had forgotten. Cold the same. Rest. March: Endings, and, more frightening, beginnings. The failing of friendship, and the…

Winter: Nutcracker

It is a strange feeling, riding the elevator up to the dressing rooms at the Opera House. The lobby is warm, dimly lit by the soft, silvery glow of the evening sky outside the windows, snow falling to mute the sound of the city and turn everything soft. I stop there for a few moments,…

Don’t Speak.

I realize this is perhaps not such a good time to be posting this particular poem, given the season (at last fully changed) and the temperature (solid cold in all good northern places), and the images the poem lays out at first. In my defense, I started it a month ago, or something like, when…

Christopher Tolkien: The World is Changing

Originally posted on ADAPT THAT:
Adapt That is thrilled to welcome back guest writer Anna from Between Horizons for today’s post. Anna has been a longtime student of the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, and spends her free time dancing and writing about farm life in the countryside of her native Vermont. I woke up this…

Hurrahing in Harvest

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies? I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes, Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour; And, éyes, heárt,…

On Reading Hannah Coulter

You read about the ways the country disappears. The ways the children of a community choose careers over membership because belonging is painful and requires something of you that is more than money, that is a part of yourself, and to give yourself up is a hard thing and it is easier not to reach…

I want…

Unfortunately, my poetry seems to be mostly doomed to non-titlement. I get to the end, and I put all the important words in the body of the poem so I have none left to name it with. Oh well. All the famous poets’ works are known by their first line, instead of like a real…

Seasons Untitled

8/23 The slurred dregs of summer run between my cupped fingers, sticky, viscous, the juice of rotting melons and days gone sour. This mucous-thickened murmur, breeze slunk in gummed sulter, trickles bloated on the back of my neck, but I begin at last to understand why you do not like the fall.

Summer: Farm to Ballet

I didn’t expect to be at the center of a community like this. We roll up to a farm, and in the space of two hours, we have transformed the back yard, the old cow paddock, the bottom pasture, into a stage. The community turns out to see us, and it is a wonder, yet five hours after we arrived we are gone, and we leave no trace but memories.

Summer: I

Well, it’s certainly been long enough, hasn’t it? My apologies for the complete and utter lack of blogging action, over here, for the past too-many months. I had very good intentions of writing this summer, but I have found that the only thing I am able to put words to right now is the mountains,…