The Portal

I lie down in wet leaves because I believe in empathy, my dead are there, my brother…

Maple leaves, waft of cinnamon, hint of whiskey….


In America you get what you pay for, but spending time on the ground costs nothing.

Here in Syracuse, winter rain, three dead apples hanging in my backyard tree


I picture the bowl of blood and milk I’ll hand to William, my twin who died at birth

As I too slip under grass, heart so full I might just live again…