This prose-poem is about my paternal grandfather, who always walks with me.
I don't think of myself as a collector, but I was a collector, once. At what age does it become unacceptable to put everything we love on display?
I wrote this short prose piece about teaching, but I think it can be applied to "self", too -- to trust the chances we take...
I've been experimenting with non-poetic forms lately, including flash fiction, like this 171-word story.
I hope the world will be different on the other side of Coronavirus, not because of things outside of my control, but because of the quality time I'm spending with Purpose.
It’s difficult to explain to a non-dancer what the loss of partner dancing is about, this thing we chase week after week, night after night, but I thought I’d try, with this prose-poem.