A Weeping Leaf

From her life, a story grows. The roots are in every choice she’s ever made. The branches are in the things she said. The leaves are her words, each one delivered slowly and with care. She came into my life and went I know not where. When I met this woman, she asked me what I loved. She ignored the useless talk of what I do and where I come from. We walked down the street together, opening our mail. Meaningless messages and empty words, some bills. She said she would take the long way to work, because that allowed her more time to ponder and wander. I wanted to follow her, but I didn’t dare. …

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A Day At The Market

When the wind whistles through the trees, it soothes me. My favorite color is the green light of the sun shining through leaves. When I was a child, I could spend hours climbing them, playing amongst the plants. As an adult, a butterfly can still distract me for minutes unending. They flitter and flutter and convince me there is beauty in the world. A plant on my antique white desk moves with the sunlight. It moves so swiftly, for a plant, that I see it in a new position every time I look at it. Its green and purple leaves leave nothing to be desired.

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U.T.O.P.I.A.

A flood. The first instant was chaos.The news, received with no less than a few hours to react, was their last step in acontingency plan, allowing ours to even begin….

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