Author: stephen t berg

  I have just come down from my son.He lies in a darkened room with his head tipped down. I drop through eleven white floors,step onto the concrete and cross th...

There are, here, the makings of a miracle:a crumbling loaf of bread, like a body that’s spent its decades in pain,and two fishes, like searching eyes,and ...

While every anthophilous (frequenter of flowers) loves an April, I slump sad to know the frailty of such things, and to know that within every pistil, stamen, o...