by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
The Blatant Realization By Susan Soares When the layers of your onion Finally peeled away I wasn’t happy with your center When the colors of your rainbow Finally shimmered in the sunlight I didn’t bask in their glow When the last of your insecurities Finally freed themselves from you I…