A view from the backyard at my parents’ house, where I grew up, tells the story of my poetic obsessions. Yes, there’s the apple tree. Yes, the reflective lake and moody sky. Yes, even the clipped lawn.

I drove instead of taking a flight again this summer. It’s a long 12 hours from New York, but somehow, the landscape seems to awaken for me on the road, and for the first time ever, I felt like I was going home. Pretty significant for me, because in my poetry practice, I attempt “home” in my voice alone. Today, here, a resonance, like an echo, like a reflection.

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