The alphabet flexes its muscle. A stands for apologies and axes. In a world at war, art is an apple I cannot chew for clenching my jaw, a fruit that never ripens, but it sits on my tongue like a communion wafer I am forbidden to spit out. True, hymns draw no blood, break no…

Bless the bed that does not complain about my heft or my squirreling under covers to burrow into sleep, an acreage adjacent to the moon and to other citizens of the dark. In the hours of trust and silence a dizziness in my inner ear rights itself, freed of the noise from guns and quakes,…

“…all things have their place…” 365 TAO Frustration, then delight when, finally, my mind releases a needed missing noun or verb from my way-back stacks. Welcoming the hesitating word, I hug it but can only savor the syllables on my tongue, share them with my voice or pen before they shrug and retire yet again…