The wind speaks in Roquebrun. A labyrinth pond there I once fished as a boy, where darting, infant mullet kissed…
Sometimes in July, when the wind cries in the right direction, I hear a tremulous calliope sighing across the flats.…
She hasn’t known me for years; instead of throwing hugs she just casts spears, her careworn face now lined with…
To run with white horses, white horses, white horses. Oh, how I long to ride them with you. Because the…
I never thought eBay would contribute to my grieving journey, but then I’d never heard about Mourning Seeds until my…
Under a goose moon, he calls amongst the lament of waves, whispering in ripples. Spring arrives once more. Is it…
Welcome, sleeping wanderer, to the peculiar seasons of the liminal spaces. Here you’ll find the things that fall between the…