"In the end, I made myself live. I am the farthest north of my life, and I know I'm supposed to love this world though I could shut the door and pull the drapes until they overlap like two palms in prayer."
"But the tree lichens are shifting from green to red and I miss the summer's scent of lilacs and the bark pockets of trees that fill with the nests of chickadees."
"I understand the longing for monastic life. All is slant and when I read the Russian poets I know I'm not the only one who equates church bells with death tolls."
"Sometimes the setting sun is too heavy for the mountains to hold. How many times has your red-hot prayer slipped from your hands?"
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