JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2014: POETRY by Rose Postma The leaves, which are not leaves, are silverfish, which are not fish at all but wingless insects: translucent as uterine vellum, antennae always craving flight, exodus. Some sloughed by wind as finger nail clippings or dried skin cells to the floor, destined for the garbage can. The remnant is clinging to the gray-bark trunk, to the branches and the peach tree suckers growing below the grafting line, not clinging, grasping. Held, bound, always feeling…
Rose PostmaJanuary 1, 2014