The summer passed. Choked by excessive heat and wildfire smoke. Like the blur of highway signs in the predawn light, it sped by. Were all summers like this one? What were the stories of previous Augusts?

From three years ago:

Something in front of you right now was designed by some unseen modern peasant who worked long hours with short deadlines. . .

The visible and invisible nature of graphic design

From five years ago:

Have you ever written something that developed a life — even an audience — unexpected?

Patience – your writing finds the right audience

That August Asheville evening, more than a decade ago, was one of the last nights our two families enjoyed supper and stories together.

Language is communal

Eight years ago:

“There is juju with these things,” he said inspecting one of the shields I painted. “People connect with this stuff, because it was created with human hands. Not some computer.”

From the office in the oak grove

Dare I go back any further? Ten years ago. Nothing appears to be written in August. What about fifteen years ago?

It is interesting to learn which individual poems became the foundation of my journey into poetry.

What’s your all time favorite poems

Eighteen years ago:

A poetry reading is like an art gallery portfolio review.

Poetry, a gift

Looking back over these August thoughts, essays, meditations. . . this modern peasant needs to devote more time to things made by human hands. So much of my professional life is filled with screen time, that it is time to return to handmade art, design, and poetry.