Our eldest is fleeing the nest. She is eighteen, graduated high school, and weary of rules and curfews, reminders, nudges, and general naggings. And indeed, I have grown weary of delivering these things. A new language is born between us. She is both excited and uncertain, as are we. She was named for the rain. Accompanying all the bright ponies of sentiment, worry, and conflicting emotion: a brown mare, reminding me the sweetness of the grass. The new book I'm writing -- and illustrating -- if that be the word, has compelled me invoke my childhood guiding stars: The Brothers Grimm, CS Lewis, Kipling, Yeats, Gorey, Sendak, Mother Goose, and faery tale. Is this a children's book I'm writing ? Not quite, but Quite. Will it be a book of poems ? In essence, yes. In other words, I have the vision, but not the category. The rhythm, but not the map. And remarkably, the publisher, but not the expectation. As I stumble along through this odd jo
