In late winter woods
sap seeps; still green,
the ferns are flat as maps;
the stones, road signs,
edge a steep path from north
that’s streaked with roots.
Roots, my grandfather used to say,
They’ll trip you if you don’t look out.
But I’ve learned they bind
the earth together
with their lovely rules.
Zigzagging down,
I spook a doe; her flag flies.
This white’s my direction,
lost and found.
Self-Forgiveness
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Statement of Teaching Philosophy
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