A short poem about what we're walking toward.

You’ve met them before—and you’ll do so again.

A sonnet for Clara A. Rager.

They're still out there. Still waiting.

We may not recognize monsters anymore, but that doesn't mean they've ever left us.

A short poem about a place most of us visit regularly.

Magic and enchantment are alive and well, but they were never ours to inhabit.

Another way to do end-of-year recaps. What I read, did, abandoned and experienced in 2024.

Winter melancholia is sometimes directly proportional to age. But I sometimes wonder if it has to be so.

Everything changes—not just our families, but also our perceptions of them.