Within each foliate head of hydrangea, small winged bodies hiding from the rain. Our hands brush against them, curled, when we snip the stems. The startle is skin, one moment stepping outside of itself.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Within each foliate head of hydrangea, small winged bodies hiding from the rain. Our hands brush against them, curled, when we snip the stems. The startle is skin, one moment stepping outside of itself.