The season’s sacrament
begins with thimbles
-- tiny communion cups --
and needles to pierce
soft cotton batting.
Below the quilt’s altar,
cupped in supplication,
receive red thread
to stitch blessings of warmth.
From “Snow Day.” The Distillery, vol. XV, no. 2 (January 2009).
Wren stretched out her arms and legs to form an X with her body. She moved them back and forth, then turned on her side and curled up inside the angel she had made in the sand. She would have slept there, breathing winter’s poison wind, if a police officer hadn’t roused her and escorted her off the beach.
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I wasn’t wild about winter on Pawpaw Ridge. If ever there’s been a godforsaken place, it’s that mountain in the middle of February. The trees was slick and black and they pinched the empty air like they was mad. The snow was not white up there, but blue. It seemed unnatural to look out on that blue snow with the sun grinning down on it not doing a bit of good. And the wind was all the time blowing. That was what got to me the most.
I was always running to the door or the window to see who was tapping. Like to drove me crazy. Royce was used to the air creeping around the house, poking every corner with its invisible fingers.
From “The Devil’s Better Half.” Floyd County Moonshine, (February 2009).
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