On Keeping a Plant Alive Out of Spite
The fern was supposed to die within a month. It is still alive, entirely, I suspect, because I refuse to let it prove me right.
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Writing on sustainability, wellbeing, and teaching — the material and educational conditions that let people actually thrive.
The fern was supposed to die within a month. It is still alive, entirely, I suspect, because I refuse to let it prove me right.
Every line here was lifted from a real almanac, rearranged but never rewritten - the found poem as a way of listening to the past on its own terms.
He works his hives bare-handed and bare-faced, and insists the veil is less protective than the stillness it usually replaces.
He kept the light for twenty-nine years by hand, then for six more after it no longer needed him, out of something closer to loyalty than duty.
When the water finally dropped low enough, the old road reappeared first, then the foundations, then the argument about whose fault it was.
Older residents remember the spring flood the way other people remember a relative - inconvenient, occasionally dangerous, and missed more than expected once it stopped coming.