"Bubbling up in our own good time-- online."
Groundwaters Publishing, LLC
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Volume 6 Issue 1
Page 23
Page 23
The empty lot next door grew Rhododendrons of auspicious coloring, mixed-breeding our gardener said. We hoped the builders wouldn’t pluck them out like a splinter. By lunch, the raw earth bled like a botched surgery, incisions too deep in the marked pine trees of death. The morning after we went to the burdened lot where our privacy had been beaten down. No more shrubs, no trees where secured birds came to drink and eat from our garden. We poured martinis and walked along new foundation. Discarded carapaces of megalithic insect’s internal suicide noted. This was worse than any forest fire: a pile of plywood painted pink. |
| Pink's Not My Color By Janine Margiotta |
