The morning rain pours down like heavy tears, To wake a memory lost for all the years. I hold a piece of plastic and metal in the garage, amidst the cardboard and the inventory of a routine evening, and feel the sudden jolt of a lightning rod. There it sat, on the very top of the plastic tub a tiny, forgotten echo from a CVS aisle in Griffin, where my father once laughed out loud, seeing

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” — Matthew 6:34 (New King James Version) In the quiet of my study in Corinth, Mississippi, these words are not merely a suggestion; they are a retaining wall. The silence in this house has a physical weight, the pressurized echo chamber of a modern sociological craze that has redefined the American family's landscape. I am the mother of an only adul

Daughter of the poet, the bard of mountain folk, I read the work he left behind inked ghosts breathing through my hands. Editor, poetess, archivist of his soul, I bound his voice in amber so time could not erase him, so Henry might someday hear him. His name is a cathedral; mine, a whisper caught in the pews. I edited his thunder, while my own voice starved in the margins. How does a daughter sing when her father’s song still fills the valley, when every echo answers in his n

Christmas Poem To Ian/by Anne Hendricks The lights are bright, the carols play, As Christmas finds us miles apart. Though silence fills our second year, You hold your place within my heart. I send my love on winter’s breath, And lift a prayer to skies above, That you are safe, and warm, and held Within the circle of His love. No matter where your path may lead, Or how the seasons drift away, You’re cherished more than words can tell, This holy, quiet Christmas Day. #ianbrowni