Digging – Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down Continue reading

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A Month of Sundays

It’s been a month of Sundays, lazy days, vacation days in which we could do anything, go anywhere. There have been road trips, endless helpings of Cookout and coffee, scary encounters with swerving truckers and alternating patterns of being up very early or sleeping in very late. We cooked a lot. We ate out a lot. And Continue reading