by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 1, 2007 | Poetry
The things I’d never liked,like winter light in January,the long cold wasted afternoonstoo bright upon the scumbled cusp of December’s woodedgrays and greens—to slowly come to like such things,how much richer they seem for their unexpected seduction,like bitter...
by Jennifer Landretti | Apr 1, 1999 | Essays
July 6 A wet morning. The clouds scud by, looking dark and broken. They have that startled watchfulness of things flying past. I hunch on the gravel lot, making coffee. Six scoops, and one for the pot. Across the ravine, the yellow grasses of Bear Butte lift into fog:...
by Jennifer Landretti | Apr 1, 1996 | Essays
All the untidy activity continues,/awful but cheerful. –Elizabeth Bishop The Yellowstone River begins near the Continental Divide and roars down its famous rocks to the plains of eastern Montana. There, beneath a slower current its stones grow ghostly, then fad...
by Jennifer Landretti | Jun 22, 1994 | Essays
I live in an old neighborhood near a small downtown, just beyond the reach of the last parking meters. Any of the houses here would look stately and haunted perched on a hill somewhere, but as it is they’re all serried together down the long city blocks: most gables...
by Jennifer Landretti | Apr 1, 1993 | Essays
We never owned a cottage on a lake, though my parents knew plenty of people who did. In the years I was growing up, our family sometimes visited acquaintances on one lake or another, always arriving with extra food and towels and never lingering for more than a couple...
