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Watching for Tornadoes (a poem)
When we were small, we sat on lawn chairs on tepid Sunday nights facing southwest watching for tornadoes. We peered at green angles under the
Transitions (a poem)
Sometimes it's not convenient to light candles for the many small deaths no one notices, the youth dreams wounded beneath sheets like crossed
In David Whyte's poem, The Journey, these last three lines stand out: You are not leaving. Even as the light fades quickly now, you are