It’s the little thingsThe drift of wind that lifted a sunlit strand of hairTo hang suspended on the breezeAnd my imagination was transfixedBy the first inkling Of the magic that you would weave.I remember summer daysAlways in my memories.The look...

If there is a wayto process the enormityof what has transpired—let it reveal itself.Its hugeness threatens to crush me;too visceral to explain,too painful to share,and it is not going to go away.They say that you can eat the proverbial...