by Heather Judy

Then is something like being

in a bag of leaves. A rustling

all around, a crunching

in winter, non-existence

in spring. Time is

still, except

for the rustling. Then is

the inability to open

the bag, the lack

of interest in doing

so. The contemplation of

each single leaf.

The noticing of how

much green remains, each degree

of brittleness and veins

like maps in your


March 16, 2011 | Posted in: Fiction | Comments Closed

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