. . .because we had survivedsisters and brothers, daughters and sons,we discovered bones that rosefrom the dark earth and sangas white birds in the treesBecause the story of our lifebecomes our lifeBecause each of us tells the same storybut tells it differentlyand none of us tells it the same way twice . . (from, Why We Tell Stories)

How I would paint happinessSomething hidden, a windfall, A meteor shower. No-A flowering tree releasing all its blossoms at once,and the one standing beneath itunexpectedly robed in bloom…

at home the bookshelves connected heaven and earth.

My husband says spring will be early.He says this every year,And every year I disagree.He needs me, the dark side of the planetary equation.Together we make the equinox.