On the day the twin towers fell, while the steel and concrete rained down and the clouds of white dust rose, when we still knew nothing, I watched on a small, boxy television in the corner of my first-period class as the news anchors groped for words. Girls cried. Boys sat atop their desks instead of in their chairs, as if nothing about the day could be normal. Biga de la Passio, Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya My English teacher that year was Mr. Ault, a man who arrived at

God, In the field at the crossroads The sunflowers hang their blackened heads. Can You hear it? Cold rain beats on the roof And drums on the gutters, Sharing dire tidings, “The worst is yet to come.” I slump down, Like a spent candle, sputtering, As the dregs of night hem me round. I wait for daybreak, For the miracle, For the call to arms, For the bugle call That will marshal armies and convert disappointments Into victors’ crowns. I wait for You. But when Sigh, At las

O God, When the plodding steps of my secret path go unsung, My footfalls deadened by the carpet of last year’s leaves, When all I have...

When we first came here, the trees frightened me. It was July 2020, and we had just driven across the country folded into a Kia Soul like...