Dear Winter,

You hold the prints of my terrier dog Socks, the dog of my son’s childhood who died after the ice storm of 2007. You held her prints for a week after she was gone. I still remember walking by them when I went around the house. They were in the dark place where the sun doesn’t reach beneath the southern edge of the carport. You didn’t take her, but I will always remember when she left because of that path you kept after she was gone. You are a season for imprints. Continue reading “Dear Winter,”

Winter Conversation

Dandelion in winter
Has lost its head
It did not roll down a hill
Nor drown in an ocean
Though the ocean may have
Longed for it
Sumac seeds and wildflower,
Pine cone and pine needle,
All watched
And said nothing.

–Shaun Perkins

My junior class collected things on the ground outside the other day and made poems out of them.