Every fall, New England breaks out with a bad case of the mumps — endless landscapes of chrysanthemums. by Therese L. Broderick
Gossip: a tornado which can’t be seen until it churns up enough grit, dirt, muck, and backyard plastic flowers. by Therese L. Broderick NOTE: Some tornadoes remain invisible until they gather debris.
I drive at midnight through the wilderness refuge known as Montezuma. Trapped in the dark, I can feel my seatbelt tighten, that snake across my lap. by Therese L. Broderick
The vine covering a tree trunk flounces its leaves, autumn red — a neck collar ruffled, funky, vintage. by Therese L. Broderick
Mother and boy kneel on a warm parcel of sidewalk, blowing bubbles through plastic wands, watching buddha after buddha float, then pop. by Therese L. Broderick
If my life were a road sign, it would be a “Yield” underneath graffiti. by Therese L. Broderick
Avarice is a beak which has grown just as long as the rest of the bird. by Therese L. Broderick NOTE: One kind of hummingbird has a beak as long as its body. The beak evolved to reach inside deep flowers.
Last night a late cup of hot chocolate kept me awake, so I sat staring at the full moon, both of us as wide-eyed as marshmallows. by Therese L. Broderick NOTE: The full moon doesn’t show until September 23, but it was full enough last night.