I write to you, for the first time,
after the year’s long ache.

The back door was my savior, leading me
To jade insertions of a picket fence
It came first to the waters. The shores thicken, nothing like life.
When diverse colours in a forest blend
the greens like olive emerald lime & jade
When our fathers
approached your
holy Mountain,
brushing a blade
of grass meant death.
“I have bruises too, a smattering, and I know
it doesn’t make sense”
by Laura Reece Hogan The time of April ticks onward outside, on the hills, in the chaparral,under sagebrush, an awakening from the ashes and the barren ache. The swallows return,…