But in a Lewis Carroll sort of way, these small places become deep and wide kingdoms to traverse—kingdoms of grief, of motherhood, of hope, and of despair. We enter them armed only with Rebecca’s shining poems, but ultimately that is enough.
Tag: writing
Prose Poem, March, Published today
Burningword Literary Magazine APRIL 2019 | NONFICTION | 0 COMMENTS March As in, pick up your mud-crusted boots and move along. Forward, onward. Stopping to ponder one’s thoughts could lead to a frozen death, a swampy drowning. March As in, the January memory of one million bodies filling the DC green (not green at all), the wind cold and…
Sonoma Rising.
Yesterday, I returned to Sonoma for the first time since the wild fires. My fear of facing the changes the wrought by the fires kept me from pressing too hard on the gas. Not long after I passed the Sonoma line, my heart clenched as I passed acres of blackened hills. Cows grazed on the…