Month 3:11
In the auto showroom, I estimate how many petrochemicals are fueling the yuletide display — one artificial tree, mid-sized. by Therese L. Broderick
In the auto showroom, I estimate how many petrochemicals are fueling the yuletide display — one artificial tree, mid-sized. by Therese L. Broderick
His answer / could be Yes / could be No / Nay / or / Yea / He reflects, reviews, opens debate, closes discussion, his indecision akin to miniblinds (maybe) Venetian. by Therese L. Broderick
From her kitchen chair, she listens to the wind. Sugar sifter. From a room upstairs, she listens to the wind. El train. From the cellar door, she listens to the wind. Penny whistle. Her only brother, all winter in bed, coughs & coughs & coughs. A four-line fiction by Therese L. Broderick
Today I give thanks for poetry, poets, metaphors, the moon, and more… by Therese L. Broderick
Week by week, wind wears away the masks of forest leaves, exposing the ravaged heads, those enormous vacant nests. by Therese L. Broderick
Be among peoples who believe their future crouches behind them, not yet seen or heard; and their past splays before them, already known. Look, listen, to their otherwise animal: by Therese L. Broderick
Still trembling in the lady spider’s web — the balled tummies of eight daddy long-legs. She danced with the stars, outstepping every one. Therese L. Broderick
A shooting star falls between Merak and Phecda — a single drip from the Big Dipper into the longest Finger Lake. by Therese L. Broderick