PAUL CHRISTENSEN

A mild, muggy day in late May, with the sky hanging within touch over the house. The fields are all puffed up with new grass, and the creeks are glutted with rainwater and muddy sediments dark as cocoa. It makes the soul yearn for some miracle of piercing sunlight, but we are attending to nature’s chores at the moment. For some reason, cars that used to mosey by the house now race with terrifying noise. You wonder what the anxiety is all about. On the hill leading into town,

I’m writing these words as a thunderstorm crashes over the house. Great empty wine barrels are tumbling to a stone floor, rolling noisily to the horizon and then disintegrating into gray smoke. These are the old vaults that once stored the prized Greek libations from Sicilian vines when there were vast feasts in heaven and the warriors, the foes, the jesters, musicians, goddesses all mingled together at the long tables and washed down their regrets and bad memories in peals o

A chilly, damp, paralyzing Spring, with soggy skies and faded landscapes. Reality feels like a pair of washed-out blue jeans. But the ground keeps birthing its progeny of weeds and flower stubs. The garden is sulking in its muddy pallor, and the birds are like boys too shy to mingle with the girls sitting in the dark of the gymnasium. No one wants to dance in this weather. If there are any chaperons, they’re holed up in a camper in the parking lot, sneaking a few snorts of wh