It was a dark morning, unusually dark, even for December, because it was cloudy, and a keen and searching wind blew shivery snowflakes out of the northeast in ever-increasing numbers.

On Christmas Eve the sky was clear for Santa and for his reindeer.

I’ve been a gleaner for nearly a dozen years. It’s not a big deal. I pick veggies local farmers don’t need or want.

This time of the year / Whispers in Santa’s ear / Elicit Ho, Ho, Hos / Smiles of children / Laughter of folklore.

As Thomas Dresser points out at the beginning of his new book, Martha’s Vineyard in the American Revolution, islands occupy a precarious position in both peacetime and war

A poem with seasonal reflections.