The Whistling Season

Childhood is the one story that stands by itself in every soul.

My books already threatened to take over my part of the room and keep on going . . . whatever cargoes of words I could lay my hands on I gave safe harbor.

What scrunched under our overshoes as we trudged through the stubble of the grainfield was the nasty mix of moistureless snow and windblown dirt that we called “snirt.

Nightly awaits that sweet address Principality of Sleep Happy Land of Forgetfullness

that whole fussy room still carried an atmosphere of having been crocheted into existence rather than carpentered.

Provider of moonbeams when I wanted full illumination.

If I have learned anything in a lifetime spent overseeing schools, it is that childhood is the one story that stands by itself in every soul.

As I mounted the stairs, my lips silently tried out the two words “contrary warrior” together.