Three weeks ago,
a little bird clung perilously to the uppermost twig
of an enormous tree
outside my small ordinary window,
a tiny black etching against the neutral sky,
bracing continually against the bitter winter gale,
but he didn’t waver.
He only flew away
after the gusts had given up trying
to knock him off.
Lost in Translation by Julie Sumner Onscreen you are perfected in pixels: laugh lines and blue-green eyes strikingly clear, still there’s an absence to your flattened presence; the space around your f
I Love How by Julie Sumner in the West, the earth fashions itself arms, complete with angled elbows and cords of tendons, reaches upward with rocky hands toward the blue-shouldered sky as if it were s
The Babylon Willow by Julie Sumner Every tree that weeps is a hybrid of our own hands, grafted to grow into the softened shape of our sorrow. Even the diamond hard light cannot straighten these limbs,