Author Archives: janishaag

for Julia Ellen Cook,July 15, 1916–May 9, 1998 Honey, she’d say,in a voice that still comes to mewaking and dreaming, Honey, you have to choose to stay.You just can’t leave. I was 22 and 100 pounds and passing out for … Continue reading →

for Timi On a breezy May afternoon,driving down a street I oncetraversed regularly to and fromthe college, where I taught so many kinds of people—the very young,the not-so-young, the middles, the latermiddles, the young old, the middle old and,lucky for … Continue reading →

They had me at London. And Writers.They write online at 8 a.m. London time,12 a.m. for me. I’m up till midnightanyway when I post the day’s poem,so when the message pops up, Writers’ hour starts in 15 minutes, with a … Continue reading →

You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake.— Dorianne Laux, from “Antilamentation” So list ’em. Write ’em down. C’mon, you’ve keptsome of them—too many of them—wrappedaround your heart like rusty barbed wire, and if you make a list … Continue reading →

—The Reverend Dr. Lauren Artress,author of Walking a Sacred Path: Rediscovering the Labyrinth as a Sacred Tool Walking the pathwith nine othersis different thanwalking alone, which is how Iusually come tothe labyrinth,solo, my preferred way, undistractedby others ontheir journeys.Today, though, … Continue reading →

The itch that demands a scratchright in the middle of the back,the spot no amount of arm twistingcan reach, sends bears backing upinto trees to shimmy into rough barkjust right for scraping away annoyance. The irritation that sends dogs into … Continue reading →

(from humilis—Latin for low, of the earth) I retrieve the thick blue foam padand toss it in the empty bucketalong with a sturdy trowel, my favoritepair of clippers and the digger—a three-pronged fork perfect forraking small patches of stubborn dirt. … Continue reading →

Part 2 On an overcast Wednesday I walkthe front yard, casting like a fly fishermanlooking for the best spot. I eyeballpossibilities after yesterday’s wanderthrough a nursery, guessing how manyplants I need based on what survivedthe drenching winter—as always,driving home with … Continue reading →

Part 1 Moist, dark soil, ready for new life to begin.—Tina Davidson We live for this all winter, the first trip tothe nursery to see the babies, to coochie-coounder their tiny leaves, to fondle theirtoo-heavy heads, so hard to hold … Continue reading →

for Georgann Hey. That vine that climbed the trellisin your Aunt Betty’s backyard, the onewith miniature pink buds that poppedout like teeny nipples each spring, the one you said smelled like a Frenchwhorehouse—what was that again?Because it’s climbing over my … Continue reading →