Matters of the Heart The heart is, technically, a muscle.When we injure our muscles, we do not say we have broken them.We tear them, pull them, strain them.We strengthen them, build them, curl them.Breaking is for hard things and the heart is not hard.But the heart indeed breaks, doesn’t it, when it meets the world?Recently
The Green Bowl (2) The meteorologist predicts more gloomy fall weather but right now it is sunny and the leaves blaze crimsons and ochres that we can see shining from space. I learn about the people who travel across the globe to see all thirty-four of Vermeer’s paintings, follow the exhibits where, in small alcoves
Winter Solstice I sleep with the window open so I can hear the street. Cars rush by, dragging music through the air like a ribbon. The sidewalk gleams orange from the streetlights and everythingis quiet, asleep, even the trees. The dark is pulled taut around the stars. This night has opened itself completely, wholly to
Snowpocalypse, January 2006 Mostly, I remember what happened after he left for good. The snowstorm, dubbed “snowpocalypse” by everyone paying attention to the weather reports’ frenzied warnings, had dumped what looked like entire bags of flour over everything. The super had left two good shovels, a jug of cat litter, and some stray scraps of
There are roses and there are roses I’m not talking about the hothouse, thornless, circus-colored cliches you get for birthdays or Valentine’s Day; or the prim, clean, white stems adorning tables at wakes—however welcome or beautiful they may be. I’m talking about the roses you see in someone’s old garden. The ones you come upon
