The Thistle & the Prairie-fire

My baby brother humored me the other day when I visited and he drove me on some of his oilfield rounds. He humored me by stopping the truck numerous times and letting me hop out to take photos. Ryan, I owe you some gas money!

Tall thistle

Indian paintbrushes & Black swallowtail butterfly
Larger version

Indian paintbrushes & Black swallowtail butterfly

I followed the Black swallowtail butterfly a little ways across the hillside, but I was a little afraid of running into rattle snakes or something so I gave up and walked back to the truck…with a handful of wildflowers.

“You are not bringing those into my truck!”

Sheesh dude. (I did it anyway, though I was nice and put them inside a bag I’d brought along.)

I think I will use this post title for a short story idea that I had recently. Regarding that, I’m going to have to do some thinking about it, but I was considering occasionally posting some fiction here. Would anyone be interested? I’m not too sure about it yet (publication concerns and whatnot).

There is something

There is something about being here…
I find it hard to explain. Whenever I talk to people about going home
or the drive home and how it’s my favorite drive ever…
how the same stretch of road, northbound instead of south
is just
not the same,


I think I confuse them. At least,
if they have never known home as a place.
I understand home as a concept of people and hearts and souls connecting,
how walls and concrete and landmarks don’t always have to be a part of it.

But let me tell you something.

When there are walls and buildings…pastures and streams,
trees that your great-grandparents got married under,
churches where people came to know the Lord,
an ancient shady grove that was home to revivals and picnics,
a piece of land once home to a tribe,
hard clay soil turned over and made to produce crops…
when these places co-exist
and carry the memories of those people and hearts and souls — my memories, my parents’ and grandparents’ memories — I’m telling you, that is something.

Sometimes, I think people don’t get it
when I say you couldn’t drag me away from here.
How in my mind I can
fly, fly away
and breathe and live and enjoy
all the rest of the world that God has made, but my feet are like anchors and here I will remain.

Every writer wants to be believed

♥ the scent of maple syrup mingling with fluffy, buttery pancakes in the morning
♥ extra blankets
♥ accepting life as it is, right now
♥ a freshly mopped floor
♥ borrowed books
♥ “Every writer wants to be believed. But every writer knows he is spurious; every fiction writer would rather be credible than authentic.” – John le Carré
♥ warm sheets when the weather turns cold
♥ words spilling onto the page
You are the stream, the fish, the light,
the pulsing shadow.
You the unchanging presence, in whom all
moves and changes.
How can I focus my flickering, perceive
at the fountain’s heart
the sapphire I know is there? – Denise Levertov