Jean Micheal Basquiat is the last great poet and painter. Or at least I hope so. The 80’s were all about icons, in large part because of...

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“One particle of dust is raised and the great earth lies therein; one flower blooms and the universe rises with it. But where should our...

A Poet to His Baby Son | Tiny bit of humanity, Blessed with your mother’s face, And cursed with your father’s mind. I say cursed with...

Words, English words, are full of echoes, of memories, of associations – naturally. They have been out and about, on people’s lips, in...

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than...

By Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav | Grant me the ability to be alone; may it be my custom to go outdoors each day among the trees and grass -...

The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart | How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love,...

Pileated Woodpecker. Photo: Pamela Underhill