where the writers are


December 6





I couldn’t prevent this plate from shattering, so I saved all the pieces, losing none.  I laid them edge-to-edge and made a design, secured it with thin-set.  Pieces of pattern framed with grout are seen, as they never could be when this dish was whole.  I am part of this construction more than just handing china onto the table.  Integrity has been lost but replaced with fractured openness.  The plate has lost personal unity to become an ingrained part of my personal archeology.



Fly your kite in the wind.




The Way West



The sun reflected in the windows

winks at me as I fly over.

The plane climbs higher

and the reflected light no longer reaches me.


I slip from my eastern bonds.

I am west coast bound.

The carpet of snow was laid down

to quiet the passage.


Clouds take over the task,

then part to reveal the patchwork

of the middle ground.


We cross the Stateline without a sound;

a few more miles then touchdown.