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Down in the gopher’s meadow, The black water meets a bank of bright green— Littered with charcoal colored slate, shifted into a home for the little truth teller. An archway of vine spills over the rocks As purple flowers bloom against the august air. The walnut trees giggle from acrossContinue Reading

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A childhood memory, ca. 1965, when I was nine years old in Swannanoa, North Carolina . . . Up in the holler . . . If my memory serves me correctly, it was late afternoon; I don’t remember what season of the year it was, although it was warm outside.Continue Reading