Call me Brash. Call me Bossy. Hell, call me the other B word. Just don’t call me a Lady. I’m a bit old school when it comes to the “L” word. In my mind, those four letters are a gilded cage, a choke collar fastened […]
Author: Karen Auvinen
When Miranda utters these words in The Tempest, it’s clear they are the words of a naif. She’s young and sheltered and–frankly–lusty. Her “brave” means handsome; Miranda is all about the surface. Most who invoke these words miss Shakespeare’s irony or haven’t read Aldous Huxley’s […]
|Cabin in deep snow|
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
|Elvis and Me|
|Aspens, Watercolor by Greg Marquez|
|The Big Pancake|
|River and The New York Times|
I love thee for the jars of San Marzanos suspended with basil and garlic, every bit of it grown by our own hands, and the knowledge that the first blizzard’s spicy rigatoni will have its seeds in July’s hundreds of yellow star-like blossoms, in August’s ripening heat.
I love thee for the color of aspen lighting the mountain, the sound of leaves skittering across the road, and for the return of winter birds: Junco, chickadee, nuthatch.
|Greg’s Black Hollyhock – photo by Greg Marquez|
Dessert? I can guarantee he gets none until he stops behaving like a two-year old in a gold-plated sandbox.