I sat with a leaf today
by Sherry Wagner
I sat with a leaf today.
From my open palm it called silently for my eyes,
and my heart.
Color receded from the leaf’s rim,
leaving bright spots of yellow-red and veins of green.
It seemed to cry out: Be with me as I die.
The sun drew moisture from the leaf.
Brown engulfed its body as edges began to curl
into a goodbye wave.
Flecks of the leaf’s blade fell away.
A light breeze broke tiny nettled veins into pieces
and coaxed them to take flight.
I had witnessed a most beautiful decay.
My palm lay empty,
loosened skin around thinning fingers,
blue veins beginning to surface.
One day it will be my turn.
About the author: Sherry Wagner is a daughter,
sister, mother, and wife. She retired
after 35 years with the U.S. Forest Service; she now pursues her deep passion
for art.
The Barn
by Ron Smith
The people next door live in a barn. That is, it used to be a barn. It still looks like one, but come closer.
Instead of a wide barn door and rude wooden clasp, there is a small front porch and a wine-red door to the barn, I mean, dwelling. The weather-beaten grey siding has been painted pale yellow. From beside the door and above, on the second floor, cozy windows grin at the world, one with a pot of geraniums out front.
But it is still a barn and different. I am seven and already hostile and suspicious toward what is different. I have something over the kid who lives with his mom and dad in the barn next door. I see him on the street:
"Hey Dick Jones. Why you live in a barn? Are you a critter? Does your mama feed you hay? Do you want to fight?"
He doesn't really want to fight, but quaking, he confront me so I won't think he's chicken.
He shoves me, I shove him. Neither of us want to make a fist. We're kind of doing a clumsy two-step, embracing like lovers.
"You live in a barn, you live in a barn!" I shout, trying to hurt his feelings.
"It was a barn," he says, "But now it's a mansard."
"A what?"
"A mansard, you know, a castle, a Taj Mahal, a White House."
I had seen the White House on TV and this is no White House.
Already perspiring and no longer angry, we release each other.
"Yeah," he continues, "It's as good as yours."
To make a long story short, he gives me a tour. The living room has a red leather ceiling. The walls are fragrant cedar, illuminated beneath translucent skylights. The aroma of heavy, sweet baking drifts from the kitchen. His mother has baked cinnamon rolls.
"Would your friend like a cinnamon roll?" she asks.
About the author: Ron Smith has been playing drums and has been in bands for as long as he can remember. His attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with several houseplants.
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