Reading Steven Nightingale’s sonnets is like sitting in the backyard on a warm waxing quarter moon summer night with a large glass of Vince Arroyo dark red zinfandel, a small fragrant nightwind soughing its way home through the cedar and live oaks, and a minor god’s ransom of jeweled fireflies dancing, calling the stars to pop out and come play, one by one. —David Lee Former Utah Poet Laureate Golden Pilgrimage soars with lightness and song. The music coursing through this attractive book holds to an unbending certainty in the power of lyricism to render a world overflowing with splendor, ache, and awe. This book is a small astonishment.

Reading Steven Nightingale’s sonnets is like sitting in the backyard on a warm waxing quarter moon summer night with a large glass of Vince Arroyo dark red zinfandel, a small fragrant nightwind soughing its way home through the cedar and live oaks, and a minor god’s ransom of jeweled fireflies dancing, calling the stars to pop out and come play, one by one.

—David Lee

Former Utah Poet Laureate

Golden Pilgrimage soars with lightness and song. The music coursing through this attractive book holds to an unbending certainty in the power of lyricism to render a world overflowing with splendor, ache, and awe. This book is a small astonishment.

—Malcom Margolin

Founder, Heyday Books