In Mary Oliver’s poem, “The Moth, The Mountains, The Rivers,” she writes: “Who can guess the luna’s sadness who lives so briefly? Who can guess the impatience of stone longing to be ground down, to be part again of something livelier? Who can imagine in what heaviness the rivers remember Read more…
Writing poetry has gotten less time from me of late. I started 2020 on a mission to complete a chapbook of poetry (and some photography) from time spent in San Agustinillo, on the coast of Oaxaca, Mexico. Then the upheaval that would be the year that this has been. I Read more…
A prose poem from a hike with my sons in Bear Creek Canyon in Colorado. Caretaker’s House They call it creepy and want to leave. But first they ask me to knock on the front door of the cottage painted in government tanyellow, capped with a roof of corrugated brown. Read more…
Another prose poem and photograph from the #trailyoga and #showyourwork files. Bird I don’t know why he did that, why he stuck the toe of his shoe against your head and body, and flipped you rolling in the dirt and rock. The savage. I saw you first. Whole and still, Read more…
On a clipboard marked “Adam Williams 1-B,” I have a stack of poetry I wrote years ago. The prose poem below digs into a mystery, reflecting on moments of father-son catch in the backyard gone by and forgotten. Decades have passed. Now, I have sons. One of them, at six Read more…