by George Freek I stare at my unmade bed.Outside, a chilling breezerustles the dead leaves,as if they were feathers.The moon is a ball of lead.I gaze at distant stars,lost in the infinite sky,as if they hadnowhere to abide.A torn shirt, hanging froma tree, waves in the breeze,like an abandoned flag,now…
by Lauren Leigh Powell I don’t know why my father hated dandelions so much. My Aunt Edna told me once that it was a “man thing.” That somehow all men, when they are the steward of their own yard, become convinced that the bright sprinkling of yellow is a punishment…
by Holly Day The voices of frogs are coming in through the air conditioner vents so loud in the rain it sounds like they’re in here with us perhaps hidden under the couch, or nestled a comforter clustered in a group of bright skin and gold eyes watching us from…
by Alita Pirkopf The chrysanthemum blossoms, heavily weighted, barely visible in snow, remind me of castanets held at the end of green-sleeved, graceful arms. Hands, fingers, clashing, clicking hardwood held by silk cord—my father’s magic and manipulation, when I was young, and he brought gifts from Spain.
by Don Mager Chunks crash from branches and sweat into the ground. Icicles drip until their hollowed fragility cracks and clatters to the sidewalk. From its cloudless tall Aegean sky, midmorning sun scans the wide expanse of thaw and wet. Only north side shadows of thick trunks lurk with small…