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*
soft now and you unknowing in rings of green I will string you and like a child in dandelions bedecked I will drape here the cool bloom of you where my fingers may twine and trail restless in the loops...
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The Embarrassment of Phileas Wensleydale Trout
Phileas Wensleydale Trout didn’t have much going for him in his young life. There was his name, for one thing. What had his parents been thinking? What was a Phileas anyway? And as if that hadn’t...
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The Embarrassment of Phileas Wensleydale Trout – Chapter 2
***If you missed Chapter 1 of Phileas, you may find it here.*** Mornings in the Trout household typically began when Mrs. Trout, in her pale blue robe with matching pale blue slippers, made her way...
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a different sort of genealogy
my father’s father kept the accounts for a coal mine in eastern Pennsylvania until one Valentine’s Day his heart quit on him and birthed a widow in its stead driving through the corrugated remains of a...
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at Sleepy Eye
days stretched out so long, they toppled off the end of the weathered dock into the spring-fed cold at Sleepy Eye among the shadows between the pilings swam the uncatchable ghost of a walleye (suitably...
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2.9.2015
I was the kid who was forever bringing home strays or baby birds. Some I’d thrust upon neighbors (apparently I was hard to resist), some would hang around, and some unfortunately wouldn’t make it. I...
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the creek
I lived once alongside the creek with its green tumblings and blue pools, where younger hands than these knew the language of the ridges in the bark of the oak that created a bridge of itself – a path...
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the traveler, starting young
I never was in so much trouble as that time I vanished down the tracks, losing sight of the afternoon, small shoes balanced on the ties, walking into evening between the rails even at that age I could...
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no prayer refused
it was simpler then, as children, to have a creek rolling through the back yard more tangible than airy gods to carry all our worries – no prayer refused – © Sarah Whiteley Diving back into writing...
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touching bottom
I cannot keep these days from sinking – thirty-four years away, I awake to the smell of lake water and its soft slaps against the poles of the dock, the wood on aluminum of oars caught in oarlocks...
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