Would that I were a windy breeze, tickling the tails of tall river rush, fickle cattails browning in decline, up through the trees and above the leaves.   We would rise— invisible and present perpetually— surveying the scene as no eye can behold, for self occludes the lens of perspective. Better,

I write because I must.   When the Spirit moves, Dust cannot stay silent; language itself becomes breath made visible.   I write because I must. I am compelled to do it — like a moth circling flame. There is no reasoning with the path that unfolds when You move within me.   There

Hey Dad, I used to look up to you when I was little. I remember your arms — tree trunks beside my tiny twigs — and the surety you carried before I was old enough to see the cracks beneath the surface. I wanted to be like you once. I believed every

When the world grows still enough, even the hum of traffic can sound like prayer.   She was stiller than at other times, When the light lay low and the world Was hushed as if silence had taken form, And garbed itself in traffic lights and dark, Dusty Carolinian streets at

Epistle IV – The First Breath After the Question   Hey Father,   I learned another valuable lesson today and had to share it with our friends. You hear everything, and when we ask, You truly answer — just rarely as we expect. The answer often comes in that first breath after the question,

The Third Epistle of Fayetteville Two lessons found me before sunrise—both reminding me how quick the tongue can damn and how slow the heart is to see. Fayetteville remains my teacher. Hey Beloved, I’m feeling a bit worn at the edges. Kinda like one of those old, threadbare

Are you running away, my friend? She looks hurt — aghast almost — evident in the moisture of her hazel, haloed eyes as she peers through the fading blanket of dusk, talking to it as if to a friend.   Fall upon me and shroud me, in the velvety depths of your eternal