Selected work

They arrive without sound, the way snow arrives, already here, before you knew to look up. A long quiet of wings folding into the cold water, and the lake holds them the way the page holds a word it has not yet decided to keep.

What the lake gives back is not what it took. A bottle, blunted. A hinge, softened of its function. A green so worn it has become a kind of listening. I gather them in my pockets and walk home heavier, which is to say, more here.

The first lesson my mother gave me was a window. Not the view through it, the window itself. Its sash, its weather, the way the cold pressed against the glass in January and the glass pressed back. I did not know then that I was being taught a practice. I thought I was waiting for the snow to stop. I am still learning that waiting is the lesson. That the world does not require us to interpret it before it consents to be seen. A feather upright on a stone. A pelican settling its wings. The slow weather of a friendship. None of it asks to be made into anything. It asks only to be noticed.