Fleeing from the invaders who killed her father, 13-year-old Rowan must pass as both a harper and a boy to keep her family safe. Enrolled at the prestigious Master Herrins’ all-boys’ school for harpers, Rowan faces challenges in keeping her own identity secret while also being recruited for a spy ring passing messages through their music to aid the Resistance as the conquering force destroys the land and her people.
Category Archives: Word Work
Quieting the Machine
There is no stillness. I know this. It would be cold and dark if there were. But for me there is no need to add to the commotion unnecessarily. Thoughts are busy enough without surplus din, and it is hard for them to uncurl healthily without making space for them.
Matins
When I come to wake
There is a bird there
Already
A Walk in the Park
I awoke today to find
There are birds.
The Breakers
Standing on the breakers
in the spray
it can seem
Like the rock is winning
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Goldilocks Syndrome: An Elegy for the One True Chair
It’s just not working. It’s been a good year, we had a good run, when I fit into you, and you fit into me, and we did beautiful things together. Once I could just sit with you for hours, reading, dreaming, and, yes, writing. You used to support me, comfort me, but gone are thoseContinue reading “Goldilocks Syndrome: An Elegy for the One True Chair”
Aviation
The birds know what they’re about: Aviation The birds know what they’re about: raucous coupling raucous dissent raucous hunger the terrible rapture of first-flight the apocalypse of three-dimensional space I am a poor novitiate: I sit, I watch, but seldom learn with more than my pen. tomorrow, maybe, I’ll open my throat or stretch aContinue reading “Aviation”
Why write?
“Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle, curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf. We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what’s going on here. Then we can at least wail the right questionsContinue reading “Why write?”
A poem for the morning
In the bluing,
cognition drowses.
At this hour
how easy it is for there to be
just blue, and a ribbon
of gray, and black fractals of trees
spiring.
Inexorably, there will come to be
color.
And on those colors
a host of thoughts
crowding
and squawking
and rising noisily
from their nighttime folds.
This morning is half-hidden
from me by curtains,
sheer and blotting
Continue reading …
Life in the Multiverse 