Tag Archives: Aaron J. Housholder

Window

On the way home from the library I stopped in the moonshade of an ancient black maple And listened to November’s first icy snow Snapping on the tree’s last few triune leaves. The ground beneath the tree was crunchy With … Continue reading

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Two Lessons

Last night I learned that our new chef’s knife slices through meat quite cleanly, and also that my right index finger is made of meat. Aaron J. Housholder teaches writing and literature at Taylor University in Upland, Indiana. His work … Continue reading

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Foreplay

Delicate scarlet maple branches scratch at the gutters on the east side of my house, a gentle reminder that even as living things grow, they must on occasion be trimmed to keep them from harm and to leave room for … Continue reading

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Weight

The man in the shop around the corner deals in tombstones. His eyes are puffy from concrete dust and whatever story he heard this morning. His hair has always been white, or so it seems, and his hands have always … Continue reading

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Chord

Sometimes you brush your fingertips across my back On your way to the fridge to fill yet another sippy cup While I’m standing at the counter carving yet another Apple into uniform bite-sized chunks. As your Fingers trail away the … Continue reading

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