Why I Whistle
Notes in Glass Bottles

Why I Whistle

In This Issue Notes: Why I Whistle · New Words: I Once Walked Around My House Upside-Down · In Other Words: Mary Oliver and the Opportunity Cost of Writing Poetry · News: Potting Up the Basil and Tomatoes · Postscript: Ditching School to Whistle Get “Notes in Glass Bottles” in your inbox every Sunday. NOTE Why I Whistle Maybe it’s an act of defiance, or maybe it’s just…

I Once Walked Around the House Upside-Down
Poetry

I Once Walked Around the House Upside-Down

A poem based on actual events I once walked around the house upside-down,the ceiling fan sprouting like an alien flowerfrom a diamond-encrusted field of snow,coats craning on tippy-toe atop their hooks,slabs of books hanging from dark shelveslike bats thick in their caves, dreaming;and the frowny old man in the green painting seeming to smile now, standing…

The Virtues of Remote Desert Islands in the Age of Noise
Notes in Glass Bottles

The Virtues of Remote Desert Islands in the Age of Noise

In this issue
The Virtues of Remote Desert Islands in the Age of Noise + Into the Desert Once Again + The best Christian prayer books (for beginners) + Krista Tippett interviews Kate DiCamillo + Live with OSV: Imaginative Prayer + New Resources for Imaginative Prayer + The Real Notes in Glass Bottles

Spring Harvest
Poetry

Spring Harvest

A poem. I have come here to harvest humusfrom the rotten bottom of the compostI left by the apple tree last fall.Raking away the shrouding coverof dry leaves reveals the dark heartof newborn earth.Leaning into the spade,I slice through the soiland lift it into the rusty wheelbarrow. The apple tree stands by,her wide boughs bespangledwith…

If the Blackbird Can Sing in the Dead of Winter
Poetry

If the Blackbird Can Sing in the Dead of Winter

It’s been a post-apocalyptic winter around here,the sun smothered by ash-gray rags sodden with snow,the snow wrung out on our heads by the bony handsof Arctic winds. Some ancient ice god wants us dead,judging by the icy daggers he hangs around our houses.At night, he presses his face against the black windowsand claws at our…

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