beneath the quaking aspen_End of Time_Difficult_Still Morning
Catalog Guide:
beneath the quaking aspen
He buried her in the forest before the leaves of the quaking aspen turned golden. No one noticed the tamped down soil, or the way the wild grasses died back all around her, or even the circle of whimsy brown mushrooms that erupted soon after.And when autumn came, and the leaves changed, the trembling giant whose roots she fed turned scarlet instead.“I am here,” she called. “Please find me!”But, after the first frost, the leaves turned rusty, and were then indistinguishable from the rest.No one noticed her, buried in the forest beneath the quaking aspen.Snow falls, blanketing her in a cold whit...
End of Time
Standing on the sand, fresh, a new beginning, knowing that no matter what trespasses on the day, it will be different tomorrow. Wiped clean by the tide of a new day, the imprints of a previous time, only a memory of those who left them. We stand watching as the ocean has ceased to roll as it once did. It no longer brings in the hope and promise it once did, now, it brings only questions, when answers are what we crave, need.I marvel at the lavender colored sky. The future not bright enough to burn off the disappointment that has descended like a dull mist, and has enveloped me in a cocoon of d...
Difficult
It’s difficult preparing a meal for someone you don’t know all that well; actually at all. I met her quite by accident. Well not quite as you might imagine. She ran over me with her bicycle. Nice bike, older Schwinn with balloon tires. Said it was her mother’s when she was herself. I let it go at that. It was all her fault. People on bicycles believe they have the same rights as cars, which I get. But then cars don’t usually drive on the side walk. I was waiting on the corner, looking up the street to see if the bus could be seen anywhere on my horizon, and she comes flying around the corne...
Still Morning
Still MorningThe birds always trilled the song of mornwww.onedoor.ccing during the spring and summer, but during the fall and winter even they would fade into the silence that hung over Our Lady of Mercy Cemetery. It had always been a small cemetery, with a pond in the back corner and a tract of protected land to the left. The wrought iron fence that faced the street had long since been overrun with vines and scrub-brush. No one was buried anymore in Our Lady of Mercy, it was too full and had been for nearly a hundred years. The residents seemed to like it well enough. No one complained anyway as Jedidiah S...