Every morning, Mr. Bingley trots up to the bed and says, “Get in loser. It’s time to sleep in the living room.”

I felt like Snow White in my back yard today. If Snow White lived in California where we don’t green up in summer.

Beet bruschetta. I made it up. It’s delish. Beets for the win!

Poem by Lia Purpura in @pshares.bsky.social #beesofbsky

Show me your Saturday salad. (I also made a coconut cream pie.)

The little girl in my heart squealed.

I finished Whistler, and I loved it. It made me reflect on my many step parents. Also, tho, I wonder if AP was getting some digs in at Sarah Ban Breathnach (of Simple Abundance) with Mr. Positivity. Have you read it?

Stream, creek, brook, crick. California.

4th of July ride. 26 miles, crepes at Crepeville in Sac, a jump in the cold river, and Mr. Bingley was very happy to see us when we returned. We love your potential, America 🇺🇸

I have a new poem, “The Night I Missed the Dog,” in Cloudbank. Here’s a bit. Order here: cloudbankbooks.com

Hey writer team, a friendly reminder from me (wearing my editor's fedora): I know you're not using AI to write your submissions. Also, don't use it to write your cover letters, bio, or emails, or any other thing. I'm sure you're not doing this, but tell all your friends. Here's a blossom.

Whenever there’s a popular book on hold for me, I read the author’s previous work (if I haven’t). A little Midnight Library, a little—and I mean this in the best way—Because of Winn Dixie,This Time Tomorrow is a poignant read without being sentimental. Loved the discussions of time travel fic, too!

Who told you I couldn’t grow a thing?! I grew this in my pantry when I wasn’t even looking.

Today is the anniversary of my dad’s death in a car crash 19 years ago. I always know how many years it’s been because my son was two months old.

Here’s Mr. Bingley in his dashing sweater vest.

Mr. Bingley got a very close shave, and we’ve had to put him in a sweater to stop the shivers. Also, because he appeared to be nakey.

Kiley Reid is an expert at the long, slow cringe.

The thing about losing a sweet galumph is that when you walk around the neighborhood alone everyone asks where he’s gone.

What do your people call this food?

My poem, “Daughter of a Dead Addict Considers Schrödinger’s Father,” is poem of the week at Missouri Review. I’m grateful to have a poem in TMR’s online pages. Read it here: missourireview.com/patricia-cas... Also, some poppies and a bee.

I created this guy, and he graduated today.

My daughter’s bestie made this 20 years ago when I was the class art docent. I really haven’t aged a bit.

My love on today’s trail.

Felix was posthumously blessed by the UUs today.

32 bicycle miles yesterday in the daunting clipless pedals. No motor, just muscle. Very proud. Very tired.

I grew up in a dysfunctional blended family, & swore I would never again live in a blended family, but my best person had a beautiful son. He & my daughter met when they were 8 & 10. Here they are visiting in the UK today at 29 & 31. This brings me so much joy. We weren’t perfect, but we’re OK.

We said goodbye to our sweet Felix today. We really do sign ourselves up for this pain. And the love.

<——This tortoise begs to differ. It is very much an emergency.

It feels weird to ask people to vote for the worst thing that ever happened to me (his death). My dad was an addict, but he was also my favorite person for a lot of years. Just before this photo was taken he said, “Come over here and pretend you like me.” arcpoetry.ca/editorials/a...

So my poem “Daughter of a Dead Addict Learns to Brine Olives” has been nominated for Arc Poetry’s poem of the year. If you’d like to vote for my poem, that would be lovely. You can hear me read it, too. Here’s the link: arcpoetry.ca/editorials/a...