Andrew Grace After my father died I should have gone to therapy. I tried instead to solve my grief with alcohol and poems. Now I am almost 40 and all I can tell you about grief is that when I found my father on the floor of the machine shed the radio was on and wind...

August Mary Oliver   . . When the blackberries hang swollen in the woods, in the brambles nobody owns, I spendall day among the high branches, reaching my ripped arms, thinking of nothing, cramming the black honey of summer into my mouth; all day my body accepts...