ARTICLES BY James W. Applewhite

  • July 18, 2014
    The willow oak has written in itan ink of time-underlayment.I say the word emeritusand the wind-rubbed coppery surfacetouches my eyes like a worn rug.Corded by limbs to a base in soilit recovers those years of toilthat layered other leaves in another place.The library’s vellum and coffee still drugmy memory, like Gothic walls and trees above.There I and my gnarled masters strove,
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