The maples I tapped when I was young still weep into sap buckets.
I’m not sure it’s healthy anymore to hang your integrity on a coat hook of fine ethics and take a seat at the table of morality for a meal that if it could talk would probably say hey idiot if you know what’s good for you, you’ll turn around. I thought about this this morning, … Continue reading A Moving Paper Bag of Insomnia, A Poem by Chris Russell
I pass him each morning on my walk into work. He’s always at the bottom of the same tree with his nose in the same ground probably burying or recovering goodies he’ll need when things get scarce again. He’s thinking if I just keep doing what I’m known for doing the man won’t bother me … Continue reading Squirrel PTSD, A Poem by Chris Russell