Poet Laundry

  A thousand trees from sunset, each with a hand held out our windows   cupping an apricot wind, a warm pine breeze combs through ou...

  They say one becomes euphoric just before death.   It was January, but the flowerboxes were filling too quickly with snow.  ...

Every autumn— apples in a bowl on the table. Every winter—oranges.   Fresh, like this morning’s sun spilling over hot air ball...