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They walked down coke can paths, traversed brick, slate and cement patios, stopped at a frog pond (labeled), passed a band of fig trees espaliered against a rotting shed.. Every corner revealed something strange or beautiful or strangely beautiful.
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The place is a living rebirth,
And all death is only temporary.
For soon in the land, the soil,
For soon in
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In another life you would have learned to cook.
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...they smiled their cautious pathetic poultry smiles and they stuck a needle in my arm and I cried...
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Sometimes I sit in the garden and listen
to the sounds of the evening:
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“Sometimes when I feel the urge to create, I don’t know whether to grab my paints, my camera, my guitar or my pen.”
“You could have sex,” her friend, sitting in the desk next to hers, joked.
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The wind rushed by her and she heard the faint sound of barking. And then she knew why she was coming. And she ran.
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The woman smiled at the scene. She closed her eyes to accept one final, warm kiss before the fence swallowed the sun whole. A cool breeze stirred itself from slumber, fanning Muriel’s face the moment the sun’s last ray stopped lingering.
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. When the shiny black legs of the spider breach, they are followed by a torso the size of an apple.
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when women’s hair shrinks into tight curly balls and sits on top of their heads like scrunches of wool, blowing in the wind, hanging from the mouths of recently shot deer.
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Night Flowers By Zofia Barisas The garden lies in deep darkness even in the noon of blazing day. A steamy pond lies still in wait for uncertain footsteps. Here aquatic green spiders, big as frogs, spin iridescent webs from leaf to leaf. Gigantic, ancient trees stand…
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The artist with fork and trowel.
The paint; soil, seed, seedling or plug.
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Now that Spring has sprung I am reminded about the day a former neighbour complained about my squirrel collection. I love to feed the black squirrels that gather in my yard and she became convinced I had trained several ninja squirrels to enter her garden
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I still see Big Mama leaning over her garden to pick a zinnia to put in her still life. Her old pink slip, hanging diagonally a foot under her hiked up, ragged, stained dress, half covered by her paint smock, which matched her white, faux fur, bedroom sli
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