Thyme Alone on the Hill

It’s 24 degrees outside. The snow is falling, and I have meatball and chicken broth soup slow cooking in my little country home. I can smell the onions and garlic, the carrots and celery, the chicken broth and thyme. I’m totally alone, and I’m happy. I have a beer in my hand, a cigarette burning…

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Need and Meaning in the Time of Thanks

The leaves have fallen and their musty scent lifts up from the woods around the house and drapes itself around me like a shawl. The beautiful red maple leaves lie dormant on the forest lawn along side the oaks and birch and lowly locust. Their decay, although colorful and dramatic, usually takes me down a path to a past…