by Kenneth Pobo our white sweet pea curls up and above the top. We don’t let the gate swing open for fear of breaking it, no longer use the back door until frost fells the vine. My cousin says we’re foolish—why cater to a vine? Oh well, we never did much like her anyway. A vine offers no opinions, makes no demands. Climb. That’s what it does— and so well….
by Cassie Premo Steele, Ph.D. My earliest writing was done near a window. During my childhood in Minnesota, it was often too snowy to go outside, but my second-floor bedroom window was near a tree, and I sat by that tree like some devotees sit near their guru. As a…
