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What does the lover hold in her hand on Sundays? Tiny Machine, a beautiful love poem.
What happened to me on that blustery afternoon fifteen years ago cannot be explained. Four hundred miles from home. Bancroft, Nebraska. The area formerly inhabited by the Omaha Indians is now this small town of fewer than five hundred. Ninety-eight percent of European descent. I am ready to meet Hilda Neihardt, the author of Black […]
Few things sneak past my Ozark grandmother—and that includes the wonder, mischief, and brutality of Mother Nature. Born in 1924, Granny Hollis remembers horse and wagon (I kid you not) that her father drove. Down gravel roads, he maneuvered the horses to carry wife and children to a small town, not much more than a […]
Get me at a cocktail party. Get me talking about writing poetry. Get me talking about what made the difference. Just a phone call.
I was talking about words like a painter might talk about primary colors.