Thomas Michael has always lived near the edges of things. A house backed by pines and a slow-moving creek, far enough from city noise that the only rush comes from wind through branches or dogs chasing shadows. Mornings start early with coffee and frost on the grass. He walks the same dirt paths year after year, noticing how one season bleeds into the next without asking permission. That rhythm shaped him more than any school or job ever could.

The poems carry pieces of a rough start. A father who walked away and left words that still sting decades later. Being told over and over that he was never good enough left deep tracks. Those lines show up in the anger, the doubt, the way he questions every mask people wear. But the same life gave him other gifts – a wife who stays steady, dogs whose loyalty never wavered until the end, meadows that quiet the noise inside. He writes from both sides, the hurt and the healing.

He does not pretend to have answers. The collection admits faults straight out – regrets that wake him at night, choices he would change if he could go back. Anger flares at bigger lies, too: politicians pulling strings, crowds marching in step without looking up, freedoms slipping away while everyone claps. Yet he keeps coming back to gratitude. For a first snow, a swan’s slow glide, the way firelight moves on friends’ faces. Small things that remind him life is still good.