Hoppin' On and Hoppin' Off Around Paris Paris is a river. It is easy to miss the point.   The city of so many icons overwhelms with...

In the full of the field of ripened Sweet Charlies I kissed her.   Pick-your-own strawberry season in Hampton Roads is a short, lip sweet...

On the run for home Seven minutes. We have seven minutes to make a 12-minute journey. Lingering is not an option. Experience reminds us...

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A cultural escape from culture. Culture is hard to find in our little big town. Strange, considering we have a funded district dedicated...

In the blue. My reflection. Without stillness. Hard edges blurred. Moving in the light. The light so brilliant bright. With back...

It rained for three days. I listened. Trying to write of the sound. Sounds. Different tones from different places. In bed. By the window....

A Williamsburg Staycation Her face seemed kind. Knowing. She stopped in the middle of the path we now all shared. I think of a Doe as...

A month without. A month within. Big Brother’s pickup was parked in the front yard. A half truck length from the street. Just short of...

the January cold slow shows my scars from the road from the night everything changed across my chest and mid and my neck sometimes goes...

And other stuff that happened on a Monday night The rise of many hands with grace. Palms open. Fingertips tipping the top of our silence....

I could blame the Librarian. Her sunless face. That dress off the Madewell mannequin. I wasn’t even at her station. Eavesdropping is what...

A quintet of lacey white dresses, hems an inch from their asses. A mom enables with the lift of a lens and the teens turn to porcelain....

on the brink of the calendar turning the hourglass upside down for sands burying   the sky is more gray than blue the ground more brown...

I take my thumb and press it. Nestle it. Push it into the heart of the stone. Into the smooth place where it naturally rests. The...

A Ghost Story. A True Story. Hovering above the deciduous and pines in the blue dark of a North Carolina night. An intense bright without...

A Ghost Story. A True Story. The mills were built of the local blue granite. The stones could sweat a moody indigo in the right kind of...

A Ghost Story. A True Story. She whispered to the cat in her Cat Lady voice. The cat that wasn’t there.   But it was. I thought it in her...

A ghost story. A true story. The kerosene lantern arced in broad swing.   By itself.   The speed made me think I must have bumped the...

The smell of humid soaked cypress and loblolly. A pileated drills. The softwood spine of a hundred-foot pine offers the meal. Threads of...