Sometimes it just stuns you
like an arrow flung from some angel’s wing.
Sometimes it hastily scribbles
a list in the air: black coffee,
thick new books,
your pillow’s cool underside,
the quirky family you married into.
It is content with so little really;
even the ink of your pen along
the watery lines of your dimestore notebook
could be a swiftly moving prayer.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
I grew up in a family that did not tell the story. I am listening…
a body is always a body individual or collective (whole or in many pieces) alive…
Let plain things please you again and every ordinary Monday. Bean soup in a white…
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We are delighted to announce the release of Kristi Nelson’s book Wake Up Grateful