In this slim volume of poetry, James Morehead has given us fifty-two beautiful little tableaux—a full deck of vignettes, word-candies plentiful enough to be savored weekly for an entire year. Painted on this canvas are puzzles (“what is he describing here-oh!”) and pictures (“yes, I see it”) and people (“no, Evelyn, not another puzzle, go to bed”). Its place is as fluid as Morehead himself; both the cold winds of Canada and the warm breezes of California blow across and through it. Not surprisingly, this son of musicians writes poetry that reverberates with sound—the lonely warning bell of a buoy, the crunch of New England fall leaves, the ominous rumble of Boston’s green line, the rippling sound of his daughters’ laughter, and, in the distance, that plaintive Robert Plant arpeggio which plucks at the guts of an entire generation. Written over decades, Morehead humbly invites us to observe his journey through time. Read Crush, then Sunrise, then Beauty, and you will feel the whoosh of forty years passing in minutes. Wordsworth famously demanded that poetry be at once both stormy and still, and Morehead achieves that “powerful feeling recollected in tranquility” best when he writes plainly about deeply moving experiences long past: a girl he liked saying his name, his first—and second and third—drinks of alcohol, his cat dying in his arms, a bully’s hand over his mouth. These are experiences we can all relate to, and Morehead has generously distilled them onto paper so that we can safely feel them again and again.