A Scarf of Words

If only she could pull each page out of Lao’s book, stitch them end to end, and wear them as a scarf always.

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The Quietest Symphony

Mags couldn’t stop pulling clothes out of hiding places in her room and laying them out. A cerulean dress she last wore to church on Easter Sunday, a houndstooth jacket, and a pair of emerald green Capri pants hung from her bedroom doorknob. She covered her bed with three different front-pleated floral dresses, her favorite …

Take Root

The field lies like a still lake, an opaque film of silver or green—water or soil, apathy or memory—obscuring the mayhem underneath A tenebrous home once floated here. Inside: chrysalis, pupa, larvae, whatever I left those costumes in closets to mold over years ago. But, then again, my home was never on the ground.    …

Only the Sun Bears Witness

So, let our shadows do the talking. High noon and the dark circles under me and the saguaro are loud with sweat. By the time my shadow abandons me, it is stubborn, howling, more coyote than man; yours shrugs toward the cirrus clouds, my new horizon home.