Skip to main content


The more things change...

Change is not so much what we make as it is what happens to us unawares. Not everything that changes is progress but it is inevitable that everything changes. The seasons flow on, all too quickly. We tighten our life-vests, and try to steer clear of the rocks. Along our way down the river, we are grateful for every resting place. Here's ours. Above, as it was in our first August here in 2016, and below, as it is now. We still miss the old cherry tree in the foreground of the first photo. It died the year after we moved here. We've carved a garden out of the hill and planted blueberries on the slope above. One thing hasn't changed. We're still here. It's still home. We'll hold to that reality as long as we can.



After the bombs fall,

After the fires are put out

And the bodies dug from the rubble

 And laid out in rows

Like seed in the ground,

The first question will not be why,

Survivors will not be debating

 The wisdom or the virtue

Of anonymous destruction,

They all will want to know,

Did my child live?

Is my sister dead?

Where will my baby

sleep tonight?


Henry's books.