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March arrives on whispered rain, A silver hush on field and lane. She lifts the frost from brittle ground, And scatters green where none was found. Soft winds untie the winter’s seam, And wake the buds from fragile dream. O March, step in with gentle light Unfold the day, grow longer night. #March #Spring

For Farah Pahlavi, crowned once in Persia’s light, Now walks in exile’s tender night. From Tehran’s rose and mountain air, To distant shores of grief and prayer. She mourned Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, her sovereign, lost to pain, As cancer’s shadow fell like rain. A daughter, Leila Pahlavi, fragile as a broken dove, And Ali-Reza Pahlavi, both claimed by sorrow none could shove. Her children raised on foreign land, With borrowed tongue and trembling hand, Far from the call of home

For Farah Pahlavi, cowned once in Persia’s light, Now walks in exile’s tender night. From Tehran’s rose and mountain air, To distant shores of grief and prayer. She mourned Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, her sovereign, lost to pain, As cancer’s shadow fell like rain. A daughter, Leila Pahlavi, fragile as a broken dove, And Ali-Reza Pahlavi, both claimed by sorrow none could shove. Her children raised on foreign land, With borrowed tongue and trembling hand, Far from the call of homel

From 1979 to 2023 I lived in Griffin, Georgia and never belonged. Forty-four years is long enough to raise children, to memorize the turn of every street, to know which pecan tree drops first in October and which church lets out earliest on Sunday. Long enough to bury a dog, to plant azaleas twice, to learn the rhythm of cicadas and the red dust that settles on porch rails no matter how often you wipe it away. Long enough to be known. And yet— I was always slightly mis-shelve

I never imagined that I could fall in love with a dog. I always embraced the idea that dogs drooled and cats ruled. The house was quiet. Mr. Popcorn, my tabby, had passed a few weeks ago, and I still felt the hollow ache of his absence. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of soft purrs, dough making, and the quiet companionship that no human ever quite matched. He had been there before marriage, curled up on the sofa while I studied in grad school, his warm body a comfort against

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

Somnolent. In the soft descent of lids unto cheeks, in the body’s yielding to the hush of bone and breath, I reach for the arms of Morpheus as one reaches for a grave’s cool earth— not in despair, but in aching need. The night will not have me. It keeps me pacing like a restless tenant in a house lined with ghosts, each corridor echoing with old names, old loves that never learned how to die. Insomnia calls me out upon the moors, where grief roams feral and barefoot, crying H

Daffodils peek, butter bright, February whispers winter’s bite. Sunlight teases, warms the ground, Then frost returns without a sound. Tender shoots in yellow cheer, Hesitate: Spring is not yet here. Copyright Anne Hendricks, M.Ed. #Meccanjourney #spring #winter #poems

The Little White House, Warm Springs, Georgia – April 1945 The air smelled of pine and damp earth. Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd stood at the window, watching the afternoon light settle over the Georgia hills. , Inside the small cottage was quiet except for the faint scratch of a paintbrush on canvas and the slow, labored breathing from the wheelchair beside the fireplace. Franklin Delano Roosevelt smiled at her, though his face looked thinner than ever. “Don’t fuss,” he said. “You

The woman came to Millhaven when the river began to rot. That was how folks described late August, when the Chattahoochee thickened and slowed, and the cypress knees rose like knuckles of the dead. Her name was Clara Beauregard Finch, and she was seventy-eight years old, dressed always in mourning black though no one could remember the last funeral she’d attended. She was still beautiful, even in mourning garb, with her white hair long. Whispers of blonde could still be seen

Virginia Hill came into the world under a Georgia sun that burned mercy out of the soil. Her mother washed clothes for white families, bending over tubs until her back curved like a question mark. Men came and went, but none stayed long enough to leave a name worth remembering. “Ginny,” her mother said one afternoon, wringing out a shirt, “you got two choices in this world. Scrub, or sell.” Virginia watched the water drip from the cotton. “I’ll sell,” she said softly. “But I

Derby, 1556 Joan Waste had never known color. To her, the world was a tapestry woven of sound, scent, and texture. She knew her mother’s face by the unique warmth of her palms; she knew her father’s presence by the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots on the floorboards. The church bells were her sunrise and her sunset, marking the boundaries of a world she navigated by grace. They called her "poor Joan," but she did not feel poor. She felt chosen. While others squinted at ink a

She said yes on Valentine’s Day and regretted it by morning. The regret came with daylight and the smell of burnt coffee. It came with the quiet side of the bed and the faint indentation of David Harper’s dog tags on her collarbone, like a bruise shaped by memory. He had shown up on her porch in uniform, February cold clinging to him like the war already had. He was leaner than she remembered, eyes older, smile the same reckless thing that had ruined her once before. “Just co

The bells at Saint Agnes had not rung in thirty seven years. Not since the night the river took the Caldwell girl. Blackwater Hollow lay where Mississippi folded in on itself, a place of slow water and slower forgetting. The town sat on a rise above the Yazoo, but the old Caldwell house leaned toward the river as if listening for something it had lost. Its white paint had long ago turned the color of bone. People said the girl had been mad. People said she had been holy. Most

The first time Michele Ferrero came to Lourdes, he felt as if he had stepped out of time. The grotto was not grand like a cathedral. It was a hollow in a cliff, damp and dark, with water trickling from the stone like tears. Candles burned by the thousands, their flames trembling as if they, too, were praying. He removed his hat and whispered, “Madonna mia. This is where You came.” His wife, Maria, stood beside him. “It is so simple,” she said. “I thought it would be magnifice

On St. Brigid’s Eve the house stays still Cold pressed tight against the pane We set out cloth by habit and will And ask the dark not to break our name The fire remembers what we forget Milk on the stove bread rising slow She walks these rooms with mercy yet Where tired hands learned how to sow We do not ask much just warmth to hold A steady road a faithful sign For hearts get weary before they get old And hope needs tending same as a vine Come morning winter may

St. Anthony, My LED Light St. Anthony, you’ve been my LED light, Steady and calm through the longest night. When Corinth froze and the power fell, You burned where fear and silence dwell. Not a blaze, not loud or grand, Just constant glow at your gentle command. While wind struck hard and ice held tight, You kept my courage wired with light. Saint of the lost, of keys and peace, You helped my racing heart to ease. Each flicker said, You’re not alone, Even when the dark felt o

Ode to the Ice (And My Frozen Assets) (We are without power in North Mississippi due to Ice, Ice Baby, 2026) The midnight ice came sliding down the pane, To freeze the yard and rattle through my brain. The lights went out, the heater gave a sigh, I watched my comfort wave a cold goodbye. Now North MS is draped in frozen grit, And it’s colder than a well-known witch's tit. I’m layered up like Dostoevsky’s crew, But even they had vodka to get through! Oh Ace, oh Fiber, hear my

If you were asked to name the happiest book in the New Testament, you might guess something written in peace and comfort. You probably would not imagine chains, guards, or a prison cell . And yet. The Apostle Paul’s letter to the Philippians, often called the happiest book in the New Testament, was written while he was imprisoned. That fact alone changes how we read it. A Prison Letter Full of Joy Philippians is short, only four chapters, but it overflows with joy. The words

On Roe Day, A Mother’s Lament By A Rachel, Anne Hendricks On Roe Day, I take to verse, To name the blessing and the curse. In ninety-one, a winter's chill, They broke my body and my will. Lorelei Elisabeth was the first, A mother’s heart, a bubble burst. The "D and X" left scars within, Where all my sorrows would begin. The damage done was deep and wide, With nowhere left for life to hide. Because of what Dr. James Gay did to me, I lost my future family. I miscarried three